


Mark My Words

by Callmetiny



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien Agreste Needs a Hug, Aged Up, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Chat is a vigilante, F/M, Fluff, Friendship Marichat, Generous Ladynoir, Kinda, What am I doing, aka the most random AU I've ever thought of, graffiti au, or at least that's what I'm calling it, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-13 17:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15369765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmetiny/pseuds/Callmetiny
Summary: Chat Noir was most known for the murals. The wide, ghastly things with bright colours and shining faces that seemed to pop up whenever they wanted to, wherever they wanted to. One night was all it’d take, and you’d wake up the next morning with a crooked politician painted on the side of your office building in neon spray paint.He had style. Mystery. Nobody ever saw anything more than a black mask, green eyes, and the paintings he left behind.And so you can’t really blame Marinette for being surprised to find him passed out on her bedroom floor. And you can’t really blame her for freaking out just a bit.





	1. Like 78% of this Story's Marichat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, so this was my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic. If you've somehow stumbled upon this, note that it is incomplete :( I bit off more than I could chew, let quantity trump quality, and this was the result. If you feel like reading after this (rather depressing-sounding) note, then feel free. I just wanted a warning(?) to start this whole thing off.
> 
> Happy reading :) Hope you enjoy anyways!!!!

Chat Noir confused her.

He was a scourge on the city. Hands down. A nuisance to some, a viable threat to others, but a scourge to all nonetheless. Regardless of whether one was rich or poor, nothing really sucked like waking up in the morning to find the week’s politician or actor, alongside with their darkest secret, spray painted across the side of your house. And so, Chat Noir, whoever he happened to be, was indeed a scourge on the city of Paris.

But it was a good kind of scourge. Paris was grateful. Voices that wouldn’t have been bothered with before were now listened to. Really, it was only natural.

That said, Chat Noir’s artwork seemed to always hold an… impersonal, duty-bound taste to it. The art itself was personal, but he always seemed to work with a degree of distance from his subjects, if that made any sense. It showed in how the curves of faces popped and how the secrets differed from person to person, always some scandalous thing or another that sent the subject into hiding for a few months, only for them to reemerge when the coast was a bit clearer. It was impersonal, professional. Business, if one chose to look at it like that.

But this?

This was confusing.

Marinette stared up at the building, completely astonished. On its wall was a massive mural drawn and signed by Chat Noir himself. It stretched all the way up the 4-floored building, just barely stopping in time to hit the roof, looking like nothing Chat Noir had ever done. It was all greyscale, picture-perfect. No vibrant, over-saturated bursts of color or bouts of neon where neon didn’t usually belong. No caricature-esque, accentuated features drawn out to hold the spotlight. Only a black and white face, staring off the wall.

And on it was Adrien Agreste.

With one violently-green label drawn out across his chest.

“Perfect.”

The face Agreste made in the mural was emotionless and bare, nearly terrifying in how it seemed to leer out before her with its flat mouth and tired eyes. It wasn’t simply unlike anything Chat Noir had ever done, it was the complete opposite. Chat’s subjects usually had some kind of expression on their faces—be it happy or sad or anything else—yet the complete _lack_ of emotion on Agreste’s face was still there, an outlier in the whole mess Chat Noir was making.

The expression wasn’t familiar. No. It was not the neutral frown of a model, it was… chilling.

“Odd, isn’t it?”

Marinette turned. Alya stood a few feet off, looking up at the mural with a surprisingly curious look on her face. Where Chat Noir had been, Alya always was—she hunted the man down like _she_ was the cat and he was the helpless little mouse.

“Yeah, it’s… different,” Marinette said. She looked up at the painting. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Poor Adrien,” Alya said, coming up beside Marinette. She gazed up at the painting again, a sad look coming over her. “The tabloids will be all _over_ this.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Chat Noir usually makes headlines, but this-” she drew a hand up to the painting, paused, and turned back to look at Marinette. “For all we know, Gabriel’s abusing his kid.”

Marinette gaped. “He wouldn’t…”

“It’s Chat Noir,” Alya said, shrugging.

“Well if he wants Gabriel he should go after Gabriel, not the man’s son.”

“Well, maybe he is out for Gabriel. Maybe he’s just pointing our eyes in the right direction,” she said.

Marinette looked back up at the painting, a new vision in her eyes. Suddenly, the look Adrien was making wasn’t eerie or scary; it was sad. It was a sad, hollow emptiness that seemed to bore right into her soul. And the word, “perfect,” seemed to mean exactly what Alya suggested it meant, that something more was going on.

She imagined: Gabriel Agreste and his son. Perfectly perfect to any outsider looking in. But maybe, if one chose to wipe the fog off the window and look right on in, they would see something different. It was a big maybe to say something like that, but maybe Adrien Agreste was not indeed perfectly perfect. Maybe he was just supposed to _look_ perfect, simply because his father wanted him to be.

Or… maybe she was just imagining things.

As a crowd formed and Alya dragged her away, chattering on about her latest theory on Chat Noir’s identity, she wondered if there could be some truth to it. It was possible that Adrien Agreste wasn’t who the tabloids seemed to think he was. Or maybe Chat Noir had finally bitten off more than he could chew and thrown them all into some big thing that he himself, whoever he was, didn’t understand. Both were possibilities, and both made enough sense. The only problem would be figuring anything out.

“-so I’m thinking that Chat Noir has to be upper class now. I mean, how else could the guy get so close to the Agrestes, let alone the rest of the people he targets-” Alya went on, going on and on about how Chat Noir _had_ to have some kind of access to the upper class. Marinette nodded along, not really listening. Alya’s theories flipped completely on a weekly basis, and so after a few weeks she’d kind of stopped putting any merit into them. Just the week before, she’d gone out and pegged Chat Noir as homeless. And now he was apparently upper class.

Marinette sighed.

The day went on and on, buzzing on by through a lunch break in her office and a hectic rush through her last set of designs for the fall show. Apparently, they’d bumped it up to take advantage of the predicted lull in Gabriel Agreste’s brand. Which would probably happen, but Marinette didn’t really think very many sales would come of it—Gabriel fashion had something of a cult following, meaning they weren’t going to be the most eager to switch on over. That said, it wasn’t her call, she had to do what she was told to do, and what she was told to do was rush the last set.

That night, she made the mistake of clicking on the news. All she’d wanted was something monotonous to play along as she worked on her designs, nothing more and nothing less. White noise in spirit.

Unfortunately, Chat Noir was headlining.

“…no significant evidence as to who the man behind the mask is has been found. While there is talk that this could be a copycat, police are continuing to devote nearly all units into the Chat Noir investigation, including a select few focused on his newest subject, Adrien Agreste—son of fashion mogul Gabriel Agreste…” Nadia Chamack was saying, her voice nothing but a tired drone, like Alya’s had been earlier.

Except, unlike in her conversation with Alya, Marinette found herself listening to the words being said. Sitting at her desk with her pencil in hand and the news playing quietly in the background, she tried hard to hear what was going on on the broadcast. Her pencil was still, only the faint outline of a design she’d been working on drawn out on her paper. She’d been working on it for half an hour, she was supposed to have gotten further, but she couldn’t help but listen as Chamack went on and on about how the police were looking for Chat Noir but their searches were coming up empty and how the Agrestes were going to be stuck under investigation.

Marinette sighed and leaned back in the chair. She sat still for a moment, thinking nothing and just listening. Then, not even looking back, she stuck the remote over her shoulder and clicked off the TV. Quiet came over the room. Only the buzz of her little desk lamp and the whirl of her ceiling fan filled the room. She looked down at the pencil and paper in her hands, pondering the design, before putting the pencil down. She’d regret not working through it, but nothing seemed to be coming to mind that night. It was best not to try to force it.

She grabbed the remote, fingered it in her hand. Maybe she should watch the broadcast. She’d hear it all from Alya later, but Alya had a tendency to… blur the lines. Her own theories came barging in, blurring the facts and merging together until the only thing left was some gross heap of something not quite true but not quite false. Which wasn’t the best thing to base one’s information around, she’d learned before.

She looked down at the remote, spun in her chair a moment.

Then it hit her.

Her door—not her bedroom door, but the one attached to her tiny little Juliet balcony—was wide open. Her ceiling fan wasn’t on; she’d been feeling the breeze.

And at the moment, a very silent, very blonde-looking, and very _masked_ man was laying sprawled out on the ground completely comatose.

Marinette froze. “W-” Her mouth clamped shut before she could get a word out. He might not even be _him_ , this could be some kind of copycat or some kind of- she didn’t know, but there was no way that was _really_ Chat Noir passed out on her floor. Nope. She refused to believe it.

A squeak escaped her, and her hand groped for her phone. She knocked something over getting it, but the phone was clamped in her hand, replacing the remote as she stared in horror at the black-clad body taking up residence on her floor. 112 was typed out before she even blinked, her thumb hovering over the call button.

But she hesitated. He could have a gun. He could have a knife. He could be dangerous, maybe out to attack her or murder her or something, but she didn’t press call. Nope. Her stupid thumb hovered right over the button, waiting and waiting to finally call the police like she was supposed to. But she didn’t. She just stood there, waiting and standing still like an idiot.

She didn’t want to turn him in, she realized. He could very well likely be an axe murderer or something, but she didn’t want to turn him in. Because, in all honesty, what had he really done? How had he ever shown himself to be malicious to the people of Paris? He’d spray painted on a few houses, sure, but the police always had those cleaned up. As much of a menace as he was to the rich, he was helping all of Paris, acting like some Parisian Batman armed with a can of spray paint and black cat ears instead of a bat mask and a utility belt. He helped the poor and served hot piping justice up to those who deserved it. And while his latest piece was a complete and utter mystery, she was sure he had his reasons.

So she put her phone down, made sure she wasn’t accidentally going to call the cops anytime soon, and stepped back. He wasn’t… necessarily going to hurt her.

And with that, she did what any normal person would do.

She sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed the biggest knife she could find, then went back as fast as she possibly could. If the kitchen was a mess when Alya walked in, it wasn’t her fault. There was a possible murderer on the floor of her room, and she needed some kind of weapon (not that she knew how to use it).

She was trying to close the balcony doors, a long process of slowly tiptoeing around his body on the floor that had taken about five minutes, when she heard it.

A groan.

He was waking up.

Maybe she should’ve gone for some… rope or something, instead of a knife. Or maybe both. She stood there, frozen in place with the balcony door handle in her hand, staring at him. Her eyes didn’t even twitch, didn’t so much as blink once as she stood there.

The eyes behind the mask opened slowly.

Marinette let out another squeak. She didn’t know what to do she didn’t know what to do she didn’t know what to do. She skittered away from the balcony doors, ducking behind her bed with the knife pointed out low over the comforter. Cause that was threatening.

She looked back to see green eyes watching her, an amused smile settled below them.

He stared at her a moment before his eyes lifted up and wandered around the room. “Lots of pink,” he said slowly, ogling everything there was to ogle at. Her desk, her tiny shut off TV, the unkempt state of her bed, the designs tacked haphazardly to the cork board on the wall. “Nice,” he remarked.

Marinette didn’t move. He’d noticed her, and he’d smiled at her. _Smiled_. She knew she wasn’t the most intimidating person, that was kind of a given, but having him _smile_ at her was… She didn’t like it. Not one bit.

She stood up and pointed the knife at him. “Get out.”

His eyes drifted over. He went on, “As much as I’d love to be out of your hands, I’m kinda stuck at the moment. Sorry.” he said, that stupid smile still smeared all over his face like ugly lipstick. She wanted it out, she wanted him out, and she never wanted to see a look like that on another man’s face ever again. “But I guess the little pink princess wants me out regardless?”

“Damn right I do,” she said, stepping closer. The knife was pointed still, trained on a little spot between his eyes. “Now go. Shoo.”

“You know cats don’t always listen to-”

“You’re not a cat. You’re a creepy man in a mask, and you’re in my house. Now leave,” she gestured at the door, as if he needed clarification as to where _leave_ was.

And apparently, he did. He stood there, eyes flicking to the door, but didn’t move towards it. Instead, he pulled himself into a sitting position and blinked slowly up at her. “Like I said, as much as I’d love to,” he said, “I’m kinda stuck here for now—cops on my trail. I really am sorry. Really.”

He was sorry, apparently. And going by the way his face seemed to dip, he really was. But that didn’t mean she was going to let him, some weirdo in a cat costume, sit there on her floor for the next however many minutes and look at her. He had no place being there because he was in her room and she wanted him out.

“I don’t care,” she said.

He fixed her with a look, and suddenly the apology was gone, replaced by that amused smile playing on the edge of his lips. “I do,” he said.

She scowled. “Well I don’t. Get _out.”_ She pointed with the knife again, hoping to make her point just a little bit sharper. Hopefully. As stated, she wasn’t necessarily the most intimidating person. But she could try.

The smile dropped. _“I can’t_ , little lady.”

“Don’t nickname me,” she said, glaring. “Leave already. Or-”

“Or what?”

Marinette stepped back, picking her phone up from the desk. “Or I’ll call the cops,” she said. She hoped that it’d work, that he’d leave—she really didn’t want to call the cops on him, he wasn’t really doing any harm. He was more of a nuisance than anything else. But if he didn’t go ahead and leave, she really couldn’t think of much else she could do. She had a knife in her hand, but that didn’t mean she was actually considering using it.

He didn’t even flinch, only called her bluff with nothing more than a grin. “Calling the _cops_? Oh, you wound me Purr-incess.” The eyes behind the mask locked on hers. “Or wait… sorry, does Princess not work for you? You don’t like nicknames, right?”

“When they’re from a weirdo that broke into my room, yeah sure,” she said, meeting his eyes unabashed. He didn’t scare her, she was trying to say. Though she wasn’t sure if it really… worked. Deep down, his presence did kind of scare her—he was an enigma, she didn’t know what he was going to do.

He sighed dramatically. “There you go again, using that word.”

“What-”

“ _Weirdo_. I’m no weirdo, Princess, you’re just catty.”

“Cause you broke into my room.”

“The door was unlocked, and I thought the room was empty. I was in a little bit of a pinch, so I let myself in.” He let out a sigh. “I already said I’m _sorry._ ”

Now the situation was getting weird. This guy, this random guy in a mask that broke into her room, was apologizing to her. Like this was some minor misunderstanding and a few gentle words would fix it all, like she’d suddenly understand and they’d end the night as bffs or something. Part of her wanted to up the threat level, maybe see if she could _actually_ use a knife very well or not, but the other part of her was certain, absolutely certain, that he would simply call her bluff again. Which was probably true. But she wanted him to know that they weren’t bffs, that he needed to _leave_.

So she pointed the knife a little higher. “Leave,” she said.

And then…

He laughed.

It wasn’t the kind of chuckle one would expect at a bad joke—no she wasn’t being demoted to that yet—this was the kind of laugh that one only made at something hilarious. Bent over, guffawing like she’d made the funniest joke in the world. And he just _laughed_. She wouldn’t have been surprised if the neighbours heard him cackling through the wall. Apparently she was hilarious with her kitchen knife pointed at him, and apparently she warranted this hysterical type of thing shoved in her ears.

A frustrated something of a grumble escaped her, and she lowered the knife. “Come _on_ ,” she said, all but whining, “The door’s right there, right behind you, and you’re perfectly capable of going back through it.”

He only kept laughing, ignoring her. Laughing and laughing and laughing, hands clutching his stomach like the laugh was itself was trying to burst right on out.

Marinette crossed her arms, fidgeting nervously. “And you know what? I hear no sirens, _”_ she said, trying to make her voice sound strong, but it didn’t work. She sounded as embarrassed as she felt. “No more cops, which means you can leave. So go, _scat._ ”

“You know, that’s the hardest I’ve laughed in a while,” he said, pulling himself upright. A gloved hand came up and wiped what must’ve been a tear out of his eye. A tear. He’d laughed so hard at her that he was crying.

She was seriously considering stabbing him. Or at least attempting to. She didn’t know how well it’d really work out if she was telling the truth. Instead, she went for something a bit more straightforward, something a little easier.

“Oh wow. Me, making the _famous_ Chat Noir laugh! I’m so honoured,” she cried, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Are you really?” he asked.

“Oh dear, I think your head just got bigger.”

“Whatever,” he said, a goofy smile on his face. “More space for my _quality_ puns.”

She dropped the stupid, airheaded voice, and couldn’t help the smile that came across her face. She rolled her eyes. “Sure, whatever. Now, you’ve had your laughs, so…” Her eyes locked on his, “Shoo.”

“But-”

“The cops, I know. The sirens are gone, you’re good. Now leave,” she said, making little shooing motions with her hands. “Make like a good kitty and shoo.”

“I thought I wasn’t a cat,” he said, that stupid smirk back on his face.

“Whatever, leave.”

He sighed, turned to the door. A smile still played across his lips, though the smirk was gone. “You know what?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re no fun.” He faked a frown. It only lasted a mere second though, before the smile was right back there on his face.

“I try.”

The smile grew, but this time it seemed more natural. Sincere, not like the first couple of smirks that’d cropped up earlier. “Nice meeting you Princess. I really am sorry about all this,” he said, turning towards the doors. Before he took so much as a step forward though, he turned back. “I do hope our paths cross again.”

She huffed and tried to fight a smile, only to find herself failing miserably. “Sure. Now leave already.”

“Alright, alright. I’m going,” he said. Gone was the mockery, the teasing, and in its place was an odd kind of soberness. She wasn’t sure if she preferred it or not. But she didn’t get to decide because, before she could say anything, Chat Noir was making his way over to the door. Boots padded on soft carpet, and then he was up on her balcony’s railing, hand braced on the side of the building.

“See ya Princess,” he said, throwing a peace sign up in the air.

He swung down the balcony and was gone.

Just like that.


	2. The Perks of Meeting Chat Noir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must note: this chapter is a bit slow. It’s less moving plot, more of a reaction to the last chapter. Rest assured though, next update holds more… intrigue ;)

Marinette sighed and sank onto her bed, staring. Just staring straight ahead at the balcony door in front of her. No move to close it, no move to even tear her gaze away. Simply staring.

And staring.

_"Nice meeting you Princess. I really am sorry about all this."_

And staring.

" _I do hope our paths cross again."_

She stared as the door stood open, a light breeze still trickling on in and waving the curtains about. Her eyes, the traitors they were, couldn't look away.

" _Alright, alright. I'm going."_

She blinked.

" _See ya Princess."_

She'd met Chat Noir. Actually met Chat Noir.

And he'd been nothing but frustrating.

It couldn't be real. Chat Noir, formerly nothing but a name and a mask, had sat there and been utterly frustrating, apologizing all along the way for it. He'd walked through those doors, held a conversation with her, and walked right on out a few minutes later with a kind smile on his face. She'd tried to force him out the door, but he'd just sat there on the floor and talked with her like they were best buds till he'd decided to take his leave.

It was ridiculous, it was insane, and yet...

She didn't really know how she felt about it.

Suddenly all the mystery surrounding Chat Noir was gone, poofed out of existence the moment he'd opened his eyes and commented on her pink walls. The walls he had no right to judge because they were beautiful and perfect, unlike his stupid self and his stupid mask.

But that was off topic.

Point was, the mystery was gone.

Or... maybe it wasn't.

She still didn't exactly know the guy, meaning all that mystery was not totally blown out of the water. Some of it was still there, alive and well in her short-circuiting brain, interrupting her thoughts just like it was supposed to be doing. But a certain type, the type that drew fans like a swarm of starving flies, was gone. The carefully crafted, abhorrently cliché image of a mysterious man in a mask—the one that Marinette had been very comfortable with thank you very much—had been single-handedly destroyed in a short conversation. It'd simply imploded on itself. All the mystery, the allure, the danger: gone.

And in its place, she had no clue what to think.

She'd had a certain picture drawn up in her head, and he'd gone ahead and shattered it with a massive behemoth of a hammer, leaving nothing but questions and questions and questions in its wake. The media's image was easy, explainable, but the man behind said image was apparently not. It seemed he was just a tad bit more complicated, as were all the best. And Marinette didn't like that.

In the media's eye, Chat Noir had a very, very clear reason for everything he did. A backstory the whole world had come up with for him, a life that he lived out, a personality all to his own. They'd practically dressed him up as some kind of actor in a movie, wrote out his lines and his story, and he did not object. Nope, the news went on and on about Chat Noir like he and Chamack were best buds, despite the fact that the media's image apparently did not fit the man at all. Marinette had seriously been expecting some angsty emo-type with a penchant for revenge to pop up off her floor, which was not what she'd gotten.

So maybe she was curious. Curious about what kind of man Chat Noir really was, now that she didn't know what to think about him and his work. The media's image was blown straight out of the water like a fisherman with a pack of TNT and a job to do, and there was no chance of ever getting it back because Chat Noir himself had gone ahead and killed it. She didn't know his motive, his life, his personality—nothing. It'd all up and disappeared like it'd never been there to begin with.

She wanted to know who the man behind the mask really was, now that it was basically proven he was not your stereotypical revenge-fueled vigilante. So yeah, curious. There wasn't much left for her to base her assumptions on anymore—only a couple apologies, a handful of puns, and a little bit of snark—so the way she saw it, it was only natural for her to be curious.

Even then, the word still didn't fit, not one stinking bit. Nope. It wasn't quite what she was  _feeling._

Maybe... shocked? No.

Dumbfounded? No.

Flabbergasted? No way. She was not flabbergasted.

She groaned. Nothing felt like the right word. Either she needed to invest in a thesaurus or curious would have to do.

Stunned?

 _Stunned_.

It kinda fit.

She wasn't curious, she was stunned. Or maybe both.

No, it didn't work.

Curious worked.

She got up and closed the balcony doors softly, then sat down on the edge of her bed again, still staring out the open curtains into the night. She didn't know who Chat Noir was anymore, didn't know what to think about him, and without an image all she had was a handful of questions and no answers.

The old image had had solid questions with sure answers. Why? Tragic past. How? He's obviously rich. Who? No idea but he's mysterious and sexy, ain't he? They were easy, simple questions with simple answers. But now she had different questions and more complicated answers that she had no idea how to figure out, leaving her with a whole big load of nothing to hold in her hands and be confused about. Why had he passed out on her floor? What was his deal? Why had he acted the way he had? What was a man like that doing spray painting walls? She didn't know, she didn't know, she didn't know, and she didn't know. She had no answers anymore, only questions darting around in her head like wasps she couldn't quite grab.

Maybe he was still out there. Maybe she could just run out there, grab him by the tail, and make him answer her questions. The balcony doors were only a few feet away, what would be the harm in going out to make sure he'd left? It was a chance getting a couple questions answered. There was no harm, right?

But she doubted he'd be out there.

No, there was no way. He was a masked vigilante, he wasn't going to be hanging around right outside her door, swinging his tail around idly waiting for her. He would not be sitting perched on the railing of her tiny little balcony, an amused look cast her way when she opened the door to find him there, waiting. 99% of her wanted him to be there so she could drag answers out of him, but the same 99% was absolutely sure she'd much rather push him off the balcony before she could get a single question out.

That would be entertaining.

They'd lock eyes, he'd call her " _purr-incess_ " one more time, and she'd waste no time in pushing him right off the little chair he'd made of her railing.

Oh, that'd be fun.

She'd still be left with questions though.

But she was left with questions anyway because that was an imagined scenario and there was nothing she could've possibly gleaned from it regardless. Chat Noir was gone, and with him went any hope at answers. Which left her questioning more than ever, confused and curious and spinning around in circles in her head because she didn't have anything to go off of anymore.

Maybe Alya could help. Generally, Alya seemed to be the type to have answers.

But... then again maybe not.

Alya was wonderful, don't get her wrong. But this just seemed like the kind of thing to be kept a secret.

First of all, Alya would probably have a stroke. An excitement stroke, if such things existed. Alya would scream, have a stroke, come back to life, then scream a little more. Boom, Alya would leave the building and not come back for a very long time, and when she did, she'd pry every detail from Marinette's poor brain.

She'd be so excited, so ready to let the whole world know that her best friend Marinette had met Chat Noir and held a conversation with him. But then Marinette would have to stop her, tell her the whole world didn't get to know about it because Marinette was not letting the whole world know about this. Chat Noir was still a mystery, meeting or not, and there was no way she was putting anybody close to her at risk. It wouldn't be worth it.

Alya's eyes would sink, she'd be disappointed. She wouldn't do anything Marinette didn't want her to, Marinette was sure of that, but the disappointment would still be there.

No, telling Alya would not go well.

It wasn't worth it.

Ignorance was bliss, and Alya was better off with a little bliss.

So there were no sources of information within arms reach, none that she didn't already know, meaning there was no need to keep thinking about Chat Noir. Obsessing over a few questions, however persistent those questions were, wouldn't be doing her any good whatsoever. Sure, she was curious about the whole thing and it was bound to drive her mad if she put too much thought into it, but that was exactly the point. Feeding into it would lead her down a long road until she was obsessive about the whole thing.

So there was no point, really. She wasn't going to be figuring anything out anytime soon, nor was she going to be making even the slightest bit of progress if she just kept thinking about it. It was best to just put the questions down and let them all answer themselves with due time.

And maybe pay a little more attention to Alya's rants.

But that was beside the point.

The point was: the meeting was a one-time thing, meaning it was best not to dwell on the subject or she'd end up going mad somewhere along the line. Which wasn't exactly preferable, not in the slightest. Sure, she was curious.

But she needed to stop thinking about it.

She shoved all things Chat Noir into the back of her brain, locked them up until further notice.

Easy. Simple. Done.

The meeting was far from anything she was going to let herself think about.

The clock struck 23:00 just as she crawled into bed. Alya wasn't home yet, but she chose not to think about it—Alya was home really late more often than not. So Marinette pulled the covers up over her bed and made sure not to think about Chat Noir.

Strangely enough, it worked.

But not for long.

Early Saturday morning, Marinette wished she could tear her eyes off the TV.

She couldn't.

No, she sat right there, plopped next to Alya on the couch, eyes glued to the screen with a look of absolute focus on her face as Adrien Agreste moved about the screen. Reporters were held back like rabid dogs, none of them getting so much as a word out of him. He simply let his bodyguards guide him into Gabriel Fashion's headquarters without even acknowledging the waves of reporters being pushed out of his way.

He made it seem so easy, walking through a massive crowd of people like that, pushing past the clamour with ease. And for him, it probably was. The mob was probably nothing out of the ordinary for him, and so of course it was easy.

But his actions weren't what had Marinette drawn to the screen.

No.

Marinette was watching his  _face_. The one that looked so much like the mural drawn up by Chat Noir, the one that she never wanted to see on another human being ever again. Nobody should ever have a reason to make a face like that, so full of emptiness and nothing that there might as well been a blank sheet of paper was walking through the reporters in Adrien Agreste's place. It was chilling, it was sad, and it made her want to reach through the screen and wrap him up in a huge hug. Not that that was at all possible. But still. The want was there, and the face was there.

The screen switched, and Nadja Chamack appeared with a script in her hands, the footage of Adrien left to the background.  _"Yesterday, an insider at Gabriel Fashion Headquarters reported that Adrien Agreste, son of CEO Gabriel Agreste and one of the brand's most prominent models, is taking a break from his work at his father's company. The motive for the decision is yet to be confirmed by Agreste himself, although many suspect it may have something to do with the recent activities of Chat Noir, who targeted the model Thursday morning."_

"He looks sad," Marinette remarked, watching Adrien turn away from camera after camera. Still nothing was said, he just kept on walking and walking as Chamack repeated old information over the newsreel.

Alya scoffed. "Forget sad, he looks like his dog just died or something," she said.

"I don't think he has a dog. Gabriel's allergic," Marinette said, thinking for a second. Yeah, there'd been a show a while back where that they'd nearly cancelled, all because someone had shoved a Pomeranian in Gabriel Agreste's face.

"What? I thought it was cats."

"No, dogs."

"Whatever," Alya said, leaning back into the couch. Seconds passed, before side eye was thrown Marinette's way. "Why am I not allowed to obsess over Chat Noir, but you're allowed to ogle Adrien Agreste? That's hardly fair."

Marinette smiled. "It is too fair. My ogling is healthy."

"Mine is too."

Marinette chose not to contradict her. There was no way Alya's 'ogling' was healthy, absolutely not, but it was probably better to let it be. She settled for a laugh and let it rest.

They kept on staring at the television as they settled into silence again, watching the people moving about like little ants around the entrance to the building. Reporters were ushered away, employees allowed in and out with badges displayed on their chests, bodyguards interacting with both. It was a hectic mess.

" _Many fans are expressing concern over social media, with some even going so far as to accuse Gabriel Agreste of abusing his son, saying that Chat Noir gave Adrien an opportunity for freedom from his father's influence. Adrien has been quick to comment that the decision had nothing to do with Chat Noir, that it had long since been in the making, and that the people can rest easy knowing his relationship with his father is okay. No comment has been made on where he plans to go next in his career, although many prominent brands have reached out."_

Marinette watched. The screen went back to the footage of Adrien walking through the masses. He finally reached the wide glass doors of Gabriel headquarters and walked in, away from the mess outside with a bodyguard by his side. That emptiness never left his face.

The Chat Noir she'd met the night before must've had a purpose for this. He absolutely had to. There was no way he would make such a muck in an innocent man's life like that, not without a good reason for it. She didn't need to know him very well to get that—he'd seemed like a decent enough person. Certainly, he wasn't the type to induce such a miserable look to someone's face without a cause.

Right?

Chat had to have had a reason for targeting Adrien.

Yet there Adrien stood, looking as innocent as could be. He was almost like a contradiction, striking through everything she thought she knew. He wasn't like the rest of the subjects, who usually rushed to play off the rumours springing up or dash out of the country before the law caught up with them. He just frowned at the reporters and walked into his dad's building, having said nothing about the whole ordeal but for the short little comment Chamack repeated earlier.

It didn't seem right. Chat Noir was  _not_  the type to accuse an innocent man, no way. Absolutely not.

Although it was entirely possible that the reason was just... shockingly unapparent compared to everything else he'd done so far. Maybe there was something the police hadn't found, something Adrien Agreste was hiding so far down that nobody had yet to find it. A traceless crime, with "perfect" as its clue.

Or something. She didn't really know for sure. But there had to be something up, otherwise Chat Noir wouldn't have put Adrien's face up on that wall. He was guilty of something.

The screen switched, and Chamack came back on. _"In other news, the search for 12-year-old Marshall Dumont is-"_

And suddenly Alya stood, remote in hand, and clicked the TV off. Clicked it off, cut Chamack off in the middle of her sentence, and with a mock-accusing look on her face, whipped around to face Marinette.

"Girl," she said, pointing the remote in Marinette's face. "Do you like Chat Noir or something?" A suspicious eyebrow was raised,

Marinette was screwed. There was no escaping unscathed when that eyebrow was raised.

She had to play dumb, pretend there was no eyebrow. Nope, no such eyebrow existed.

"What?" she asked, frowning.

"You're all glued to the TV. You're like me!" The eyebrow was dropped, and an extremely wicked smile grew on Alya's face.

"I'm not-  _no_ , you're just-"

"Don't even try to deny it," she said, leaning forward. "This is not Adrien Agreste ogling we're dealing with, no way. You're not even paying attention to that pretty boy." Her face came within inches of Marinette's, an accusing smirk on her face. "You're looking for info on  _another_  blondie."

So obviously denying wasn't working, but it was the only tactic Marinette had. This was war, and she would defend herself till her dying days no matter how desperate she got, and that meant denying even though it was stupidly obvious to do so. "I don't even know what you're talking about," she said.

"Just yesterday you were ignoring me about Mssr. Kitty. But now you've got some kinda  _interest_ going on. You're staring at the screen like  _me_ , I swear."

"I wasn't ignoring-"

"Marinette," Alya said, a look of calm on her face. "You're a terrible liar."

"I wasn't lying!"

"Sure you weren't. Now c'mon. Spill."

"I- I..." Marinette sputtered, trying to come up with a feasible answer.

Alya's eyes stared her down, a smile still on them as they locked right on their target.

She was just a little bit of prey that Alya was about to pounce on, devour, and spit out just so she could dance around and insist that Chat Noir was amazing. That was actually what was happening. Alya wanted to shove Chat Noir in her face, show that he was worth every millisecond she spent devoted to him day in and day out.

And that "spill" had been a plea deal. Accept it, go on ahead and admit that Chat Noir was amazing, and the sentence will be lessened.

But the thing was, no part of Marinette's brain wanted to admit that maybe, just maybe, she was a little bit curious about the man behind the mask—at least not to Alya. Though there didn't seem to be any other options, at least none that wouldn't just incriminate her more. All the evidence was in, and the plea deal was her only way out of a full, lifelong sentence to shame.

So, thinking smarter, Marinette decided to keep it simple.

"I saw the news broadcast yesterday. The one with Chamack." she started. Thought was put into each and every word—one slip up, and she was doomed. The plea deal had to match all the evidence, otherwise the prosecutor would doubt its veracity and everything would take a hard right turn for the worst.

"And?"

"And... I guess he seems..." She shrugged. "I guess he's not the worst."

Alya fist pumped the air, letting out a squeal of excitement. "I knew it. I knew it. I  _knew_ it. You've finally joined me," she said, plopping back down on the couch. The widest smile was on her face, a laugh popping right on out her mouth.

"I'm not joining you." Joining was a strong word to use, and Marinette was in no way  _joining_.

"Oh you will be. It's a slippery slope, and there's no climbing up it. You start out thinking maybe he's a little cool, and the next thing you know, you're buying merchandise."

"There's merchandise?"

Alya nodded proudly.

"You  _have_  merchandise?"

She pointed down to the pyjama shorts she had on. And what would you know, they were speckled with green-eyed little black cats. Chat Noir pyjama shorts. Which apparently existed, and Alya just happened to be wearing a pair.

Because of course they existed and of course Alya had a pair.

Marinette slumped back into the couch. "I'm not buying Chat Noir merchandise."

"You will. All in due time, you will."

She shook her head. "No, I won't."

"Yes, you will."

Another head shake. "No, I-"

" _Any_ way," Alya interrupted. She jumped up from the couch, "Whether or not you buy merchandise is up to you. However, this is a special occasion. And so I say we deserve pancakes."

"You're making me pancakes?"

"Yes."

Marinette stared at her a moment.

Alya was cooking. Actually cooking for the first time in however long they'd lived together. Maybe even longer, she didn't know. But Alya was cooking, a huge milestone in and of itself, and it was because of a man dressed like a cat.

"Because I decided I like Chat Noir?" she dared to ask, looking up to meet Alya's eyes.

A fervent nod. "Like I said, special occasion. You want blueberries?"

"I don't see why not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, not much plot. What is this "pacing" people speak of?
> 
> Updates will be Fridays and Tuesdays, with a little wiggle room depending on how life goes.


	3. In Which Adrienette (Kinda) Exists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chérie = darling, pêche = peach, and coccinelle = ladybug. Lemme know if I used those wrong ;)

Monday had started as a beautiful day. Picturesque, really. The kind of day that made her happy she could walk to her office if she didn’t feel like the bus—cloudless sky, warm sun, slight breeze in the air. It was rare for a Monday morning to seem so pleasant.

It all started with a very unusual sight.

Marinette walked into the office to see someone perched atop her desk—a woman by the name of Elaine.

Dressed like she had a photo shoot to be at, Elaine was a metre and eighty-four (6ft) of pure scariness for any interns unfortunate enough to cross her. She had this tendency to draw eyes everywhere she went like some kind of sun, radiating enough confidence and command to make you look at her even if you didn’t want to, forcing eyes to her just by existing. She had sharp cheekbones and a sharper Russian accent, and she was the kind of woman that Marinette would’ve been afraid of in any other circumstances.

All in all, she was a sight to behold, seemingly out of place on Marinette’s desk.

They hadn’t talked in a while, not since Marinette went from intern to designer and they’d started drifting apart. Their schedules never lined up anymore.

With a bit more warning, Marinette would’ve been thrilled to see Elaine perched on her desk. Really. Elaine was one of her favourite people in the world. But the thing was: Marinette honestly had no idea why she was there, why she was sitting on  _top_ of her desk, or what she intended to do sitting there.

“Elaine?” Marinette asked, approaching her desk.

Elaine’s eyes picked up at the sound of her voice. “ _There_ you are, ma chérie.”

“You were waiting for me?”

“Who else would this desk belong to? Philipp Plein?” She let out a loud laugh, “Of course I was waiting for you.”

“Any reason?”

“Do I need one?”

Marinette squirmed. “Eh, well I just kind of assumed-”

Another loud bark of a laugh came, and once again, sets of eyes were drawn to Elaine. “I kid, Marinette. I kid,” she said, waving a hand through the air, “As much as I’d love to drop in whenever, I’m here on business. You know about the Adrien Agreste situation, no?”

Marinette didn’t like where this was going. “Of course,” she said.

“Well, he may or may not have a shoot here. Leftover from his work with his father—I really don’t know why it wasn’t cancelled—but that doesn’t matter,” she said. “What matters is that a couple weeks ago, I may or may not have slipped some of your designs across Sasha’s desk. And she may or may not have put them in said shoot.”

She gaped. “You showed Sasha my designs? And she liked them?”

“It was nothing, ma pêche,” Elaine said, shrugging. “I merely showed Sasha what she was missing.”

Marinette stared at her. “You- Sasha and- with Agreste?” she squeaked out, looking up in surprise. “My designs?”

Elaine nodded.

She thought for a moment. Despite what Elaine was saying, she wasn’t sure she could just drop everything right then and there. She had work to do—specification sheets to revise, a buyer to meet for lunch, etc. “But what about-”

“ _Vive_ will be fine, don’t worry child,” Elaine said.

Marinette hesitated to speak, stuttering. “But… Elaine, there’s so much left to-”

“It’s handled. All of your work is handled. _This_ is more important,” Elaine said. Her eyes were twinkling with excitement that just seemed to show that, yes, she was indeed proud of Marinette, and, yes, Marinette just needed to listen to her and go to the shoot.

“Are you sure-”

“Marinette,” Elaine interrupted, coming closer, “You will work on hundreds of collections in your lifetime. You’ve already worked on so many already, and I don’t doubt you’ll stop for a very long time,” A reassuring hand came to her shoulder. “This is not simply a collection. _Vive_ doesn’t matter anymore.”

“But-”

“You get no choice. _Vive_ is handled, and there’s nothing to be worried about. My little coccinelle, I will drag you to that shoot if I have to." Her voice was like that of a stern parent, telling Marinette she had no choice in the matter unless she intended to fight tooth and nail for it. Which was not going to be happening.

If Elaine was adamant about something, there really was no point in even trying to argue with her.

And… as much as she hated to leave, even for a day… if there wasn’t any harm then there wasn’t any harm. Her work was handled, why not just go along to the shoot and enjoy herself? There was no doubt in her mind that Elaine had certainly passed along those designs with Marinette’s best interests at heart.

So maybe it was best to just go.

“Okay, I’ll go."

“There you go,” Elaine said, nodding. "Good girl."

And that was how, thirty minutes later, Marinette found herself sifting through a rack of identical white garment bags trying to find her outfits. Elaine had never said which outfit was used, nor did she even tell Marinette that there happened to be a female model on set too, and apparently, Sasha had picked a couple designs for the female model too. This meant that Marinette was looking for an unspecified amount of clothing in an unspecified amount of garment bags.

One rack cleared, she turned around to find another.

Only to see a short rolling rack with a sign reading “Dupain-Cheng” sitting undisturbed across the room. She looked back at the other rack, the rack that happened to be much bigger than hers, and what would you know, there sat some alien last name.

She scurried away over to her rack.

A couple minutes passed as she took a look at what Sasha picked. The women’s were some of Marinette’s favorites—all winter looks with big jackets, one in particular with a set of cashmere gloves and a short pair of lace-ups. The men’s, naturally, complemented the women’s. Same black and white colour scheme on both, same matching pops of colour. The only difference was the style—where the women’s had smoother lines, the men’s had more angles.

She was happy Sasha had chosen what she’d chosen, overall.

She counted the garment bags for a quick second, matching it with the number on the end of the rack. Yup, they matched.

Then, she went ahead and started on the slow process of checking each outfit against its specification sheet, just as she'd always done with Elaine there. It was easy, yet slow, work. Zip open one bag, make sure everything matched up, check it again, then zip it back up and move on. It felt weird without Elaine there to tower over her, helping her check through each and every bag, but she did it all the same, hand moving habitually over each bag.

And eventually, she made her mistake. Her terrible, stupid mistake.

It wasn't with the clothes—that would've been so much better if she was telling the truth. Whatever she could've possibly messed up with the outfits, she could've gone ahead and fixed it.

This was worse.

While steaming a particularly wrinkled shirt, she stopped an assistant and asked him for a bottle of water. Generally, she tended to try to stay out of the assistants' ways, knowing full well how stressful the job could get without additional requests, but he seemed particularly un-busy and she happened to be very busy.

She barely made sure he nodded before her eyes were back on the shirt and she was back to trying to get a stubborn wrinkle out of the sleeve. Maybe an iron would’ve fared better, but she was too determined to even get up and bother, thinking it’d take too much time to track one down. She didn’t have the time to spare. Hell, she’d hardly even looked up when she’d stopped the assistant.

Which was where she went wrong. So, so wrong.

A couple more minutes of furious steaming and a garment bag later, she was putting the dress shirt back up on the rack and wondering how it'd managed to get so wrinkled. 

“Mlle, your water.”

She looked up, turned away from the rack.

And came face to face with the man of the hour.

Adrien Agreste, in all his glory.

Adrien Agreste with beaming, real kindness in his eyes and a friendly smile on his face, holding out a water bottle to her just like that. Part of her wanted to spontaneously combust, another part dedicated to keeping her mouth from falling right on open. 

He hadn’t even questioned her order. He wasn’t an assistant—in fact, he was as far from it as one could get—but he’d gone ahead and fetched her a bottle all the same. A bottle that, in hindsight, Marinette should’ve just gone and gotten by herself, screw the time limit.

She stood there a moment, staring.

Take the bottle.

 _Take_ the _bottle_.

Like a robot, she grabbed the bottle from his hand, let out a nervous laugh, and turned away with a short thank you. No glance in the eyes. She _couldn’t_ look him in the eyes, she was pretty sure. Nope. Nope. Nope. She was not going to look into that face and see the kindness, that god awful kindness beaming down at her like a sunbeam.

For her sanity, she was going to avoid him, avoid that face. No part of her needed to go about her day with those eyes, that smile in her mind, and so she decided she wasn't going to. He was guilty, and he’d done something that’d brought Chat Noir’s attention, no matter how kind his stupid smile was.

A second passed, and he still stood there behind her. “Are you alright, Mlle… ?”

Her name, he was asking her her name. It was like the universe hated her—What were the odds of her meeting the one person she didn’t want to be meeting? Sure, they were at the same photoshoot, but Marinette had yet to even see the female model, and still there he stood, asking her name.

She turned around.

That was her next mistake.

One look at his eyes, and she was going back on everything she thought she knew. Every moment she’d told herself Chat Noir did not target the innocent, all that reassurance—gone, tossed out the window like a deadbeat ex’s guitar.

He didn’t look like a guilty man, is what she meant.

“Marinette,” she filled in. Shoot. He’d asked for her last name, not her first name. “My first name, it’s Marinette,” she said. “And I’m alright, thank you.”

“Marinette,” he said, nodding slowly. “I like it.” An easy smile still sat there on his face, just to rub it all in. It wasn’t the smile of a man who’d just been attacked by Chat Noir, nor was it the smile of a man with an ousted secret. There was no anxiety, no worry—just that kindness that Marinette was trying so hard to ignore.

He was so nice, she bet that if she punched him, he wouldn’t even get mad about it. No, he’d probably laugh it off and thank her, then walk off to get his makeup touched up. He was _that_ kind of nice, the genuine kind that made her want to keel over or- or just walk away and get it over with.

Or maybe she was exaggerating a bit.

But the point still stood. In her humble opinion, Adrien Agreste was too nice to be guilty. It was a bit of a shallow assumption, but… nobody was that good of an actor. The man had just been attacked by Chat Noir, and there he was going about his day complimenting the names of random designers. This was the kind of nice that didn’t belong in the fashion industry and certainly didn’t belong at the hands of Chat Noir.

Someone called out a sharp “Agreste!” from across the room, and his head perked up.

“Looks like that’s my cue,” he said, turning back to face her. “Nice meeting you, Marinette.”

He was leaving before she muttered out something resembling a goodbye. He just walked on off.

And with him went any chance of her day turning out well.

So that was how Marinette found herself standing there like an idiot, staring after Adrien Agreste with nothing short of a stupefied look on her face, realizing she was screwed. Completely, utterly, and completely screwed. She didn’t even know what to think anymore.

Just two days ago, she’d convinced herself that Chat Noir had to have had a reason for going after Adrien. Even if that reason was proving to be very, very difficult to find, it had to be there. It only made sense, Chat Noir was always in the right—that was just the way it was, the way it’d always been. Never once had he been wrong about a person.

But Adrien’s face was not the face of a man with a secret on the loose.

He was either confident nobody would find anything, which was entirely possible, or he had nothing to hide. And, weirdly enough, Marinette was willing to bet money on the latter.

She plucked another garment bag off the rack.

Fifteen minutes later, her brain seemed to have unanimously agreed that ignoring him was the best option. She had a job to do, and thinking about the kind of stuff that didn’t belong at a photo shoot was not part of it. It wasn’t a decision that she’d wanted to make, but it was the only way she’d be able to stay focused—put as much distance between him and Chat Noir in her brain as humanly possible, which meant putting distance between her and Adrien.

Despite the fact that he was wearing two of her outfits, Marinette tried her hardest to ignore Adrien all morning. Nods of “Agreste” whenever they came into contact, before she launched into adjusting a button or pulling up his turtleneck or tucking the scarf in. Positions that would’ve seemed intimate or strange out of context were not, simply because she was choosing not to make them so.

She refused to.

Part of her felt like a jerk. Every time she neglected him a glance or a “hello,” his face would fall all over again, and she would be stuck wondering if it was really the best option. But she really had no other choice. She had to keep her head from spiralling out of control every time she met his eyes, and unfortunately that the only way to do it. Anything to keep him and Chat Noir out of her head was a precaution she needed to take.

She just had to keep reminding herself that he was guilty. Adrien Agreste was guilty. Ignore the kicked puppy look on his face every time she dodged his gaze, every time she bent down without a word to fix the jacket he had on. He was guilty.

He was guilty.

He was guilty, and there was no evidence besides a stupid smile to say otherwise. Her trust was in Chat Noir, the man with a record of being right that she _couldn’t_ just toss aside because Adrien Agreste did not happen to look guilty.

She packed away her last outfit—one of the woman’s—and set it on the rack with a sigh.

“Marinette, right?”

That was…

Oh no.

She looked over her shoulder, saw him, and promptly jumped.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, chuckling. The sound of it was light, but still settled like thick smoke between them, making the silence after just that much more stifling.

She turned all the way around. “It’s alright.”

This time, there was no escape. There was nobody to tug her away, no clothing or other people to distract her and keep her from actually interacting with him. She still kept her eyes off of his as best as she could.

“Did… Did I do something?” he asked, hesitant. It didn’t sound like a question he wanted to ask, but more of one he _had_ to ask.

She looked up and met his eyes. Words came to her lips, a firm yes and a firm no tugging in different directions, but none of them worked. “I suppose so,” she said. It sounded too formal, almost weird on her tongue, but it was out there and there was nothing she could do about it.

“It’s about Chat Noir, then.”

She nodded. Like a scolded child, she nodded.

“It’s okay, really. I don’t mind,” he said.

“Wh…” she started, trailing off. Finally, she looked up and met his eyes.

He really wasn’t bothered by it.

He didn’t even look remotely upset. The way she’d chosen to word it, she was basically accusing him of something right then and there, and he didn’t even look bothered by it.

The female model had been hesitant to even touch him. Chat Noir was making people scared of him, making it so that that model, so used to being exposed and vulnerable around a photographer’s camera, had asked to change the position so his hands didn’t rest on her sides. And Adrien didn’t seem to mind.

She fell silent for a moment, staring at him.

He had to be- There was no way anybody could just be so relaxed about the whole thing. Absolutely no friggin’ way.

It was only then, after a few seconds of confused staring had passed, that his face fell. The smiling, happy model was gone, and it was only because she had looked at him funny. He seemed to squirm under her gaze.

“I’ll just… I’ll just go.”

“It’s not what you think. I’m not… scared of you,” she said, stopping to mull over her words. The female model had been scared of him, but she knew for sure that she was not.

“Marinette, it’s okay. I understand,” he insisted.

She paused, staring at him. He didn’t even look bothered by the whole thing. He wasn’t even trying to defend himself, he seemed absolutely certain that Chat Noir had found something and that something was bad. “Why… Are you okay with this whole thing?”

“I mean…” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Whatever Chat found about me can’t be good. But I trust him.”

She gaped at him. “That much?”

“He’s never given me reason not to,” he said.

And he hadn’t. Throughout the past two years Chat Noir had been active, he’d never been wrong about a person. The police always figured out what was going on and, more often than not, the wrong do-er was locked up where they belonged.

But if her meeting with him had taught her anything, it was that Chat Noir was human too. Behind all that grandeur and that mask, he was just like the rest of them. And to be human is to make mistakes.

“But what if he’s wrong?”

Adrien froze. “W-what?”

“What if Chat Noir is wrong?” she said, louder this time. She was surer. Adrien acted like he had nothing to worry about, talked like he was the most innocent man to walk the earth, so was she completely wrong in her guess? Was it heresy to say he might actually be innocent?

“Chat Noir’s never been wrong before. I doubt he’s wrong now.”

“Guilty men generally don’t say things like that,” she said, her voice soft.

Again, Adrien seemed to freeze, reconsider what he’d just said. He stared at her in silence for a moment, as if it was indeed heresy that she’d just uttered and maybe he should go tell the clerics or something.

“I-I-” he sputtered. He stopped himself and tried again. “I should go.”

Oh no.

She’d… she’d upset him.

She put her hand to his shoulder, trying to stop him. She could fix it. “I’m-”

“It’s okay, really. I just need to think.”

Their eyes locked for a split second, until she dropped her hand and let him go. He walked off in a certain direction, putting more and more space between them with each step.

Guilt sank in her gut. No matter what he’d tried to say, she’d upset him. Her first real shoot, and she’d gone ahead and upset the model who’d been so kind to her earlier. First she’d ignored him, then she’d scared him off.

She needed to apologize. She’d overstepped her bounds, gone where she wasn’t supposed to, and now she needed to apologize.

But he was already gone.

And in his wake, he’d left her mind spinning.


	4. Stray Chat Blues

Marinette sat on the floor, staring up at the wall in front of her.

It was peppered with useless red lines of string, pictures, and news articles. She’d spent an hour on the whole mess—trying to root around the apartment to avoid using tacks, highlighting bits of information, etc.—and it was all useless.

It was supposed to be like in one of those detective shows. The investigator puts all the stuff up on a board or a wall, puts some red string between the connecting things, and the _bam_ comes the realization. It was all supposed to click like _that_.

However, it didn’t seem to work outside of the TV universe. She’d really only wasted paper and made funny faces at the wall.

An hour, wasted. She’d just sat there and stared at the papers hoping something would happen. She didn’t know exactly what she was expecting—maybe some sort of “aha!” moment where everything seemed to click together, or a grand realization where she’d see the one thing she was missing—but she knew she expected _something_ to come out of it.

She sat there on the floor like an idiot, sighing. Over and over, she agonized over every scrap of information she’d so carefully printed out, and it’d amounted to nothing more than a wasted ink cartridge and a whole lot of tape.

“You know, you’re never going to figure anything out like that,” Alya said. She sat down next to Marinette. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Marinette frowned, but decided to keep on sitting there. Given that she had no idea where to go next, she decided it was the best option. She knew that Adrien didn’t fit in with the rest of them. That was easy. She knew that, for reasons unknown, Adrien seemed okay with being at the rotten end of Chat’s attention. That was also easy.

The only problem was figuring out Chat’s side of the equation. Why had he gone after Adrien? And the thing was, nobody knew anything about Chat and nobody knew why he’d gone after Adrien, meaning she was back at square one: sitting there staring at the wall like an idiot.

Alya pulled off a low-hanging piece of paper, looked at it funny, then put it on the floor in front of her. “Will you listen to Nino?”

Marinette looked up. Nino sat on the couch across the room, all set up with a blanket tossed haphazardly on his lap. She hadn’t even noticed him come in, yet there he was slouched like he’d been there for hours.

“Hey Nino,” she said.

“This is all old information,” Alya said, scrutinizing the paper in her lap.

“That was posted three hours ago,” Marinette said. She tried to snatch it out of Alya’s hand, but Alya held it away and crumbled it up in her fist.

“Hey!”

“Think. Someone had to get the info, write the article, edit the article, and  _then_ post it. The information’s gotta be a day old. My blog is much more efficient.”

The poor article was tossed at Nino’s head, where it smacked him square in the forehead with a satisfying _thack_. Alya giggled and grabbed for another sheet.

“Stop it!” Marinette said. She yanked on Alya’s arm, trying to keep her from murdering any more innocent articles, but Alya was stronger and soon another paper was squished.

Not even a full second later, it hit Nino square in the glasses. “It’s not even useful,” she said. “It’s BBC News. I bet they don’t really know _squat_ about Chat Noir.” She grabbed for another article, picking up one with CNN blaring out from the top—aka, another one she considered useless. It seemed any major news article was on her “useless” list.

Marinette humphed.

“Just so you know, I’d consider this _obsessed,”_ Alya said. Another paper ball went soaring over Nino’s head. “Damn it.”

“I would too,” Nino piped up.

“Nobody asked you Nino. Shush, I’m busy coaching,” Alya said, grabbing another article. Just as Nino finally returned fire, Alya chucked it at him, only for him to catch it in his hands and fire it right on back. She was hit square in the jaw with a paper, earning cackling from across the room.

“I’m being coached?” Marinette asked, smiling.

Alya and Nino kept throwing paper back and forth at each other.

Alya paused. “Yes. If you’re going to do this, then you’re going to do it right- _Nino!”_

A ball of paper had somehow ended up perched at the bottom of Alya’s v-neck, sitting right above her décolletage like it’d simply meant to taunt her. Nino just laughed some more.

“But-”

Alya stuck a finger up in the air. “No buts. I’m the journalist, my word is law,” she said. But it was hard to take her seriously when another piece of paper went sailing by her head. Grabbing the paper from her shirt, she flung it over at Nino.

“I feel like that’s a general rule,” he said, “Alya’s word is law.”

She nodded. “Yes, it is. Thank you Nino.”

“Okay then,” Marinette said, a smile coming to her face, “What advice do you have for me, oh _wise_ journalist Alya?”

Alya laughed. “The wise, _divine_ journalist Alya says…” she looked up at the wall, pondering it for a moment, “That _this_ is a waste of paper.”

“What? I’m trying to be a detective,” Marinette said.

“This is all online though.”

“On your blog?”

“ _Yes_ , on my blog. All the information you could ever possibly find about Chat Noir is at your fingertips, and you decided to waste paper instead.” Alya shook her head in mock disappointment. “Shameful.”

“You and Nino don’t seem to think it’s a waste,” Marinette pointed out. Another piece of paper went sailing past Alya’s head, landing in Marinette’s lap.

She glared at Nino.

“You started it,” he said, shrugging.

She turned back to Marinette. “For your purpose, it’s a waste. Nino and I are just innovators,” she said.

“As if,” he said. “We’re throwing paper at each other.”

“ _Repurposing_ paper, mind you,” Alya said.

“Well whatever it is, you’re balling up my research,” Marinette grabbed another article out of Alya’s hands and stuck it up on the wall.

“Your unnecessary research.”

“Agreed,” Nino said, nodding.

Marinette jabbed a finger at Alya. “You’re biased, and Nino, you’re just agreeing with her.”

He offered up another shrug.

Marinette sighed. “Fine, I’ll go look at your blog. Do what you will,” she said, waving a hand at the wall. “You’re cleaning it up if you make a mess.”

She pulled herself to her feet and made her way to her room.

“Nino you’re helping me clean it up, hear me?” Alya said.

“As you wish, oh _wise_ one.”

Marinette barely caught the triumphant look on Alya’s face when she closed the door.

She sank down into her chair and stared at her laptop. Some part of her was trying in vain to stop herself from turning it on and scrolling through every bit of information she could find on Alya’s blog. It was more of a matter of admitting it to herself than a matter of pride. She could call herself un-obsessed all she wanted while she was printing out and taping up articles, but finally going through “Chat’s Corner”? That was just screaming it from the rooftops, finally letting herself know she was some kind of Chat Noir fanatic.

Although… when she thought about it… it really _wasn’t_.

She opened up her laptop.

_Tap, tap._

It was the first search result that came up. Up popped images of all things Chat Noir, theories and supposed ‘sightings’ littering her screen like the trash on the ground when the can was full.

_Tap, tap._

She scrolled down, pausing when she saw the mural of Adrien Agreste cross her screen. She kept scrolling, ignoring the tingling down her spine at the sight of it. Something about it just…

“ _It’s raining, lemme in.”_

Marinette stopped.

No, stopped was the wrong word.

She froze.

It couldn’t be…

No.

_No._

_“Princesssssssss,”_ a voice whined.

She turned around.

Oh.

_Oh._

Crouched on her railing, leaned against the side of her building, was Chat Noir—soaking wet, with the biggest, stupidest smile on his face, looking at her through the window. He waved when he caught her gaze.

She slammed her laptop shut.

 _“Please lemme in,”_ he whined through the glass.

“No,” she said, turning around. No way was she letting him in, no matter how hard it was raining. Hell, even if a monsoon decided to swing by for a quick visit, she was still not going to open that door and let that mangy cat of a man inside her room. He was still sketchy, and he’d gone after Adrien Agreste for reasons he didn't think to share with the world, meaning he could very well be wrong. She wasn't letting him in, nope. 

He wasn’t going to melt.

_“I’m going to meeeellllltttttttt.”_

“Good.”

“ _Come on.”_

“Leave me alone, or I will push you off that railing,” she said, turning around in her chair.

And then came a shit-eating grin. “ _I’d like to see you try.”_

She figured that, if she could manage it, it’d be the most satisfying thing in the world. Granted, he was probably heavier than he looked, but part of her believed it was possible and it’d be _oh_ so worth getting her hair wet, just to shove him as hard as she could and topple him over. It wasn’t the worst idea she’d ever come up with.

Sighing, she spun around in her chair and turned her back to him. Answers or not, she was not going to be letting him in again; he was still nothing more than a stranger.

“ _You know, I’m still here,”_ he said.

Lightning flashed.

_Tap, tap._

Thunder boomed.

Why her? Why did it have to be her? What had she done to deserve this?

“ _Marinette, it’s raining. Please.”_

She sighed. Alya and Nino were still outside, their movie started up as they chatted through the previews, meaning there was a big chance they might hear him. He was still sitting out there, knocking away without a care in the world and yelling through the glass.

If he got Alya’s attention, things were bound to go downhill. She and Nino would be doomed.

He wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, and she highly doubted he’d shut up if she asked him politely. Even if she yelled some very choice words, he would most likely just keep on blabbering away outside her window like an alarm with no snooze button, no cares in the world.

Unless she wanted to call the cops, she would have to let him in.

Marinette got up from the chair.

“ _Oh thank god.”_

“Shush. I’ve got a roommate, you know.”

He mouthed “ _sorry”_ at the window, eyes perked up.

She grabbed towels from the bathroom and piled them on the floor near the door. If she was letting him in, he was not going to be dripping all over her floor.

She opened the door, and he slipped in.

She knew, at that moment, that it had been a mistake. Anything Alya could’ve thrown at her would’ve been better. She’d shown him kindness once, and so he was going to keep coming back and coming back for more because that was what stray cats did and that was exactly what he was.

Except he was _not_ an actual cat, he was a man dressed like one.

And she was not going to be showing him kindness until he explained himself. No way. Not happening.

She threw a couple towels at him, closing the door and locking it again. “Why are you here?”

“It’s raining.”

 

“It’s been raining all afternoon,” she said. “Why would you go outside?”

He shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time. This cat doesn’t do too well in rain though.”

“You’re not a cat.”

Something felt off about him. It was in the way he looked at her, in the way he shivered with a towel draped over his head, in the frown that'd been there before his smile, but she didn't have the faintest idea what it was.

He smiled, and there was a glimpse of the Chat Noir she’d met a few days ago, the teasing one that’d been perfectly happy sprawled out on her floor while she pointed a knife at him.

“I’m purr-etty sure I recall you calling me a cat last time I was here.”

Of course he did. “So you don’t like the rain because you’re a cat.”

“You betcha,” he said, smirking. “Us cats and water don’t agree.”

She frowned, ignoring the way his eyes sank at the sight of it. “If you say so."

A pause. He kept rubbing his head for a moment, then balled up the towel and tossed it in her hamper with a quiet cheer. Then he sank down onto her floor with his legs criss-crossed, grabbing a new towel off the stack and draping it around his shoulders like a cape.

She watched him, sitting down on the bed with a heavy sigh. “Chat, why are you really here?"

He frowned at her. “It’s _raining_.”

“If you wanted out of the rain, you would’ve had better luck going home.”

“My house is cat-astrophically far away, princess,” he said. “I simply couldn’t _make it.”_

“You didn’t have anywhere close by?” she asked. Part of her wanted him out then and there, slippery railings ignored. He was sitting there, looking at her with that _look_ on her face, and something about it all was so unnerving that it just sent a bad feeling through her.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I feel like I’m an odd choice in this situation.”

He rubbed his chin in thought. “I guess you are an odd choice,” he said. “But no, there’s not really anyone.”

She went stiff. “That’s… upsetting.”

“I’m a solitary cat. It is what it is.”

She paused, thinking. So he didn’t know anyone as Chat Noir—nobody was working with him, nobody really helped him. Nobody was close to Chat Noir. But the fact of the matter was, he could’ve just slipped off that mask and popped into one of his friends’ houses.

Unless he didn’t have any close friends.

“What about in real life?” she asked, tentative. “When you’re not Chat Noir?”

Part of her prayed he wouldn’t say the same thing, just for her own conscience. If he’d turned to her expecting a bit of company because there wasn’t anybody else, then all her coldness was just… layering it on.

“Same deal, I’m afraid,” he said.

She gaped. "Oh."

Oh no. Oh _no_. She’d… she’d gone off her conversation with Adrien, assumed Chat was wrong and been so cold to him just because she felt like he deserved it.

She frowned, sliding off the bed to join him on the floor. She could soften up, just forget about the whole mess with Adrien for a bit in favor of helping Chat out a bit.

“You don’t have anybody you can actually… _talk_ to?” she asked, her voice soft.

He shrugged.

A beat of silence passed.

“And you’re fine with that?”

“I suppose so.”

She sighed and leaned against the bed, looking at him. He looked on back, staring at her a few seconds. Lightning flashed, and he watched the window for a second out of the corner of his eye. Then his gaze was back on hers, and it was like a whole stadium worth of spotlights was suddenly beaming down on her neck.

“You know, that’s kind of… not normal,” she said, breaking the silence. “You’re supposed to have friends you can talk to.”

He fell silent, staring at her. “I’ve been fine so far.”

“You’re running around Paris dressed like a cat,” she said.

“Claw-some, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not, I mean-” she fumbled for words. “It doesn’t seem like the best coping mechanism.”

“Works for me,” he said, smiling.

She rolled her eyes.

And there was something in those words, in the tiny little shrug that followed, that had her eyebrows dipping. It was like he was saying that he was used to it, that he didn’t really need friends because he’d never really had friends. It was _sad_.

And she was sympathetic, damn it.

Part of her was still sitting there in the back of her brain, reminding her of her conversation with Adrien just a few hours earlier—she was supposed to be wary around Chat, not trust in him because clearly Adrien had done nothing wrong.

But the other part of her…

She _was_ sympathetic. Chat Noir had no friends and nobody to talk to.

It was sad.

Heartbreaking, really. Sure, she wasn’t sure about his latest actions, but there was no denying that  _yes_ , he had done a good bit of good for the people of Paris. He deserved better.

“You know…” she said. She met his eyes again, held them for a moment. “I could be your friend if you want.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I want to.” She threw in a smile for good measure. “You seem like a decent guy under that mask of yours.”

More rain filled the air, gentle and soft like a little orchestra playing right along with them. It was soothing, calming, and it seemed to bring a smile to his face as he looked at her.

“I’d like that. Marinette. I’d like to have you as my friend,” he said.

But the moment he said it, she realized something felt wrong. His smile felt off, kinda crooked. Like someone had gone into photoshopped and pasted another smile right on top of his without caring how it fit.

It wasn’t real.

It was sculpted into his face, carved there like some toddler with a piece of clay had decided that it belonged there, and there was nothing real about it.

Something was wrong. It wasn’t that odd soberness she’d seen at the end of their first meeting—that seemed like it was more of a glimpse at the _real_ Chat more than anything else—it was different. He seemed upset.

She started quiet, her voice low. “Are… Are you okay?” she asked.

He looked back at her, smiled wider. “I just made a new friend. I’m amazing,” he said. “Why’d you ask?”

“You seem… mellow. More than before, at least,” she said. “You look like you’re upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

He’d said it a little too fast, his tone just the slightest bit harsh, and Marinette found herself with no doubts anymore. “Are you sure?”

“Marinette, I assure you I’m fine.”

A beat of silence passed, and they sat there.

“You’ve had a friend before, right?” she asked. Start small, work up to the big leagues.

“I suppose so.”

“Suppose?”

He sighed. “Things are different now. She… it’s hard to explain.”

She nodded, understanding. ‘Hard to explain’ seemed to mean it was personal, something he was reluctant to say. She didn’t mind—he was the one with the secret identity, not her—he had every right to keep certain things from her.

She went on. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know if you know, but friends tell friends when they’re upset.”

“Hm.”

She smiled. “And since we’re friends…”

He was quiet for a moment, his face creasing in thought. “It’s… okay. I don’t wanna trouble you with my _mellow_ thoughts.” He grinned in an attempt to distract her, but she just ignored it. She was on a mission. He’d obviously sought her out for some company, since he apparently didn’t have anyone to talk to, and she was happy to listen. Maybe it’d give her a little insight on how his head worked.

“I really don’t mind.”

“No, it’s-” He swallowed hard, eyes looking down at his lap. “I don’t think that’s best.”

“I think it is.”

“Is it?” he asked. “You don’t know me.”

“That doesn’t mean you should bottle it up,” she said.

He seemed hesitant, fidgety. He pushed a piece of hair out of his eyes, letting out a sigh. “I guess so.”

She gave him a minute to figure it out, sitting there patiently across from him on the carpet. Rain still _pitter patter_ ed away outside, but it wasn’t quite the pouring sounds from before. It was softer, gentler.

“I… made a mistake.” He looked up to her. He was asking for permission to go on, saying ‘is this okay?’ without saying it.

“What kind of mistake?”

“I…” he stopped himself. “This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, or you wouldn’t be upset about it,” she said. She nodded, trying to get him to go on.

He still sat there a moment.

“I… er- I said some things to someone. I’m not sure it was really the best decision to talk to them in the first place.” He looked up, and their eyes locked. There was something there, something like guilt, that she couldn’t quite make out, but she wasn’t sure if she liked it. “I don’t think I realized what I was saying at the moment, and I… I messed it up.”

“You messed it up?” she pushed.

“Pretty much,” he said, shaking his head. “She- she thinks-” He stopped himself, fiddling with his hands in his lap.

“Go on.”

He sighed. “She thinks Adrien Agreste is innocent, and it’s all my fault. I didn’t think, I just walked up and said stuff. And it was a terrible idea. _Terrible_.”

She looked at him.

“But he’s not innocent. He deserves what I’ve done, trust me when I say that, Marinette. I- I have my reasons,” he said. “I just… I thought she was upset with me, _civilian_ me, but the topic changed and it all just ended up going _wrong_. I don’t think she trusts Chat Noir anymore.”

“Which is kinda hard when you’re Chat Noir.”

A nod.

She paused. “I doubt she doesn’t believe in you anymore. It may be easy to lose trust, but it’s not _that_ easy.”

“She still trusts me some, I think… but she doubts me.” He let out a sigh, his gaze drifting down to stare at his lap.

“Chat, look at me.”

His eyes drifted up to hers.

“Everyone makes mistakes. It’s okay. I bet this isn’t nearly as bad as you think,” she said. It seemed like something an apology could fix, if he tried hard enough to fix it. Or maybe he’d get lucky, and it’d fix itself.

He fell silent, looking at her. “You don’t get it.”

“I can try to understand,” she said.

“No Marinette, you don’t get it,” he said. “It’s not simple, it’s- it’s not as simple as you think it is.”

“It’s probably simpler than you think.”

“I highly doubt that, princess.” He shuffled awkwardly, fiddling with a string on his hoodie. He was staring down at his lap. “I think I’m simplifying it, really.”

Marinette looked at him. He looked like he’d just broken someone’s arm, he looked so guilty. It really was kind of… sad.

Lightning flashed.

Thunder boomed.

He looked outside, watching the sky as the thunder rumbled along. “The rain stopped,” he said.

She hadn’t even noticed. A look outside and, sure enough, no more water ran down to the streets below. The only _pitter patter_ was the sound of gutters dripping. Lightning still flashed and thunder still boomed, but the rain had been reduced to nothing more than a sprinkle that came down one drop at a time and plopped into puddles.

He got up from the floor. “I guess it’s time I take my leave.”

“I guess so,” she said.

He turned to the door, put his hand on the handle.

“Chat?”

“Hmm?” He turned back to her.

“I was serious about being your friend,” she said. “If you ever want to come back, my door is open. Within reason.”

“Noted,” he said, laughing. He pulled the door open and climbed up onto the railing again. “I might just take you up on that offer.”

“Within reason,” she said, smiling. “I don’t tolerate peeping toms.”

“I never thought you would,” he said, smiling. “I guess I’ll see ya then, princess.”

“See ya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obliviousness at its finest.


	5. Princess Marinette and her Loyal Knight

When she was little, Marinette was one of those girls that wanted to be a princess. Not in the Chloe Bourgeois kind of way, the kind where the princess ruled with an iron fist and got everything she wanted, but… in a different way. She’d poured over Disney movies and imagined herself with a dashing prince that _she_ would save because that was what Mulan and Ariel and Pocahontas did. And Tiana too. Yes, she’d wanted to be a princess like Tiana was a princess, not like Chloe Bourgeois wanted to be a princess.

So, one birthday when this princess obsession had been at its peak, her parents bought her a sterling silver necklace with a little iris charm strung around it. Her dad had pulled the big flower book off the shelf, the one from up high where she couldn’t reach, with age-yellowed pages and a cracked spine, and he’d shown her just what irises meant.

Royalty.

Only royalty could have irises, he’d told her, meaning Marinette was royalty. He’d pointed at the three petals on the page that stuck upright and told her that they meant valour, faith, and wisdom, saying that if Marinette wanted to be a princess, she had to be a kind, fair princess, the kind that deserved irises and loved her people like her family. He’d closed up the book, bowed low, and told her that her kingdom awaited, if she chose to rule it.

So for an afternoon, she’d been a princess in her own home. The bakery was her kingdom, her subjects the customers, and her advisers her parents. People had curtsied and bowed before her, taken her suggestions about which pastries were the best with happy smiles, and she’d done it all with the valour, faith, and wisdom of a princess, the necklace like a badge of honour around her neck.

At the end of a long day of ruling, Princess Marinette sat in bed with her maman, trying to stay awake as a story about a princess and a pea was read off in a soft, soothing voice. Her maman had taken the necklace off before she could fall asleep, saying that flowers were delicate, and she didn’t want to squish it, did she?

No, she didn’t.

The necklace was put back in its little jewellery box and tucked away where it was safe.

It was a fond memory, filled with that odd kind of childhood nostalgia that slapped rose-tinted glasses on the years before she turned 13.

Marinette stared out the window, wondering how much she’d give to get it back just for a day. Fingering the necklace in her hand, she stared out the window and wondered.

It was kind of ironic. She technically was a princess now, but only by name and not by title, and only in the eyes of a man she’d declared her friend less than an hour ago. Though if she asked him to, she was sure that Chat Noir would bow, offering up the words designed for real royalty without an inch of hesitation. He’d call himself her ‘knight in shining armour’ with a smirk on his face.

She didn’t know why the memory came to her. She didn’t know why she’d gone to the jewellery box in the corner and fished the necklace out. She didn’t know why she was so sure she knew what Chat would do.

She just… didn’t know.

She fiddled with the charm in her hand, rubbing her hands over the tarnished silver. Maybe she should polish it. She was sure Alya had to have some silver polish lying around—just going off the sheer amount of jewellery she owned, it was certain—and it wasn’t like she’d mind Marinette borrowing some.

Instead, she pulled the necklace around her neck and clasped it there. She didn’t know why. It just made her smile, made her think of her parents and her friends and how happy she was to have them.

Chat Noir didn’t seem to have anybody.

Well, now she supposed he had her.

 _“I just made a new friend. I’m amazing_ ,” he’d said. If only that smile hadn’t seemed fake, she could’ve just nodded along and wondered what made a man that happy to make a new friend. Maybe he just never had too many friends to begin with? He’d talked about one friend—a ‘she’—but even then he’d talked about her like she was nothing more than an old friend.

She couldn’t believe she’d just done that. She’d befriended Chat Noir, just hours after deciding that he had to be wrong about Adrien Agreste, and she’d told him he could come back if he wanted to. She hadn’t just fed the stray cat, she’d stuck a collar on it, called it ‘fluffy’, and told it it could come and go as it pleased. She’d taken in that mangy stray and offered him friendship.

And oddly enough, she was happy she did. It was very possible that it’d become a mistake later down the road, but she had no regrets at that moment in time. Sure, he was annoying and irritating when he wanted to be, but he seemed like a good person deep down, and she figured that maybe if she just gave it enough time it could work out well.

She sat down on her bed.

Part of her was sure she didn’t know what she’d just gotten herself into. Letting him in had been one mistake, but it was tiny and insignificant compared to actually declaring him her friend. The same part of her though, was fine with not knowing what she’d just done, was sure that whatever happened would turn out okay. She was okay.

The only problem left was… figuring out what to think about the Adrien Agreste situation. She still wasn’t 100% sure that Chat Noir was entirely correct with his accusations, despite the fact that he had seemed _very_ sure of it when he’d talked about it, but she still… didn’t entirely doubt him. She wished she could tell herself to go one way or the other, but her brain seemed stuck somewhere in a mental limbo. She was balanced like a light switch stuck between on and off.

She just had to wait until someone pushed her in the right direction. Like that light switch, she figured that was all she needed, and then she’d be sound in her decision. She needed more reasons to side with one or the other, not based on pure ‘he seems innocent’ and ‘he wouldn’t mess with innocents’ or anecdotal evidence. Adrien was certain he was guilty and Chat was certain he was guilty, but she wasn’t going to be so quick to decide.

She would stand in the middle. That seemed to be the soundest way to go about it—wait until more information came up before she let herself dip to either side. Obviously, neither extreme was working out for her. So yes, good idea. Go Marinette, making a good decision.

She tugged the necklace another time.

That would work for now. Until something came up, she’d just wait and see what happened.

Princess Marinette had made her decision.

* * *

_Agreste Fashion Update: Gabriel Agreste Press Conference Addressing Chat Noir Controversy (Full Address) | NBC News_

_#11 on Trending_

_3,010,218 views, 72k thumbs up, 33k thumbs down_

_Streamed live on August 5, 2018, at 8:54_

_WATCH NOW: CEO and founder of Agreste Fashion, Gabriel Agreste, speaks out about the recent controversy surrounding his son Adrien Agreste in the first of two scheduled press conferences today. This is his first address after relative silence about the ordeal. NBC News Anchor Liliane Dubois reports._

_Subscribe to NBC News: http://nbcnews.to/SubscribeToNBC Watch more NBC video: http://bit.ly/MoreNBCNews_

_Top comment: “But this actually made Adrien look worse?” 2.7k thumbs up, 18 replies_

* * *

_Agreste Fashion Update: Adrien Agreste Press Conference Addressing Chat Noir Controversy (Full Address) | NBC News_

_#5 on Trending_

_4,702,189 views, 121k thumbs up, 1.7k thumbs down_

_Streamed live on August 5, 2018, at 10:28_

_WATCH NOW: Adrien Agreste, former model at Agreste Fashion, addresses the rumours surrounding him and his father, as well as the state of the Chat Noir investigation. NBC News Anchor Liliane Dubois reports._

_Subscribe to NBC News: http://nbcnews.to/SubscribeToNBC Watch more NBC video: http://bit.ly/MoreNBCNews_

_Top comment: “4:53 damn I didn’t think he was that tall lol” 3.4k thumbs up, 103 replies_

* * *

 

According to Alya, there hadn’t been much going on at the press conferences. The general gist was:

  1. Gabriel was trying to sound official, but he just sounded like an asshole. He looked like one too, but that seemed like it was more of Alya’s opinion than anything else. It was hard to disagree though.
  2. People didn’t believe a word of what came out of his mouth.
  3. Nobody took any of it very seriously. One of the reporters asked Adrien if he was dating anybody like it was nothing more than a Vogue interview.
  4. Adrien Agreste’s assistant looked short next to him. Not Gabriel’s assistant, but Adrien’s. Gabriel’s, the woman with the red streak in her hair, stood just a centimetre or two under Adrien’s head.



All in all, the press conferences hadn’t been executed well. Gabriel had seemed more eager to defend his brand than his son, while Adrien had looked as uncomfortable about the whole thing as one could get. All the answers had just sounded stiff and scripted, repeating the same ‘Adrien is innocent’ thing over and over, again and again like a skipping CD, with no evidence to back any of it up.

She didn’t need to waste her time with them, Alya said. They didn’t have anything important.

Regardless, she’d clicked on each video, read the descriptions, and raked her way through the comments, finding absolutely nothing in the way of useful information. Nobody seemed to take Adrien’s remotely seriously, commenting things like “ _Adrien Agreste looking sad for 23 minutes”_ and “ _We love a shady shishtar”_ and _“Take a shot every time he sips his water”,_ while everybody on Gabriel’s conference just seemed to hate Gabriel with a passion.

She clicked off the video and got to work on imputing measurements into a 3D design program. She was at work, and unfortunately, she had work to be doing. The whole Adrien Agreste thing could wait till later.

When the clock hit twelve, she was out on the street, headed towards a sub place a couple blocks down to meet Alya for lunch.

The sky was overcast, leftover from the rainstorm the night before. No shining sun, no warm breeze, only clouds drifting high above that blocked out the sun and tanked the temperature enough to warrant a jacket. She’d worn her rain boots and brought her umbrella just in case, not wanting to risk the loss of another pair of flats to a mud puddle.

“Hey.”

She jumped, letting out an “eep”. Turning her head, noticed none other than Chat Noir peeking his head out from an alleyway with a massive smile on her face.

“Marinette, c’mere,” he said.

“Chat, what’re you-”

He waved her in, putting a finger to his lips. Right, don’t draw attention to herself.

Walking into the alleyway and off the main streets of Paris was like stepping into another world. It was dark and still damp from the rain last night, trashcans strewn about at the far end with cats sticking their heads in them. He seemed to fit in against the nasty wall, oddly enough.

She turned away from the alley, looking to Chat. “What’re you doing here?” she asked. It was the middle of the day, not nighttime in the middle of a rainstorm, and pulling her off into that alleyway had been risky at best. The number of people that could’ve seen either of them was astronomically high. It was just reckless.

“I’m not that familiar with how friends work, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how they typically greet each other,” he said.

She glared at him. Irritating Chat was back with a bang, wasn’t he? Gone was the Chat who needed a friend, and back was the Chat who acted like he’d spent the whole night thinking up smooth lines to spit out.

“Do you realize how risky that was?” she asked.

“I’m generally risky. It’s a thing of mine.”

“Well it’s not a thing of mine, and I’m afraid I don’t like it,” she said. “Is this really important?”

“Oh it is, I’ll have you know.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“Indeed.”

And then out from the pocket of his hoodie came a jewellery box—a leather bracelet box, to be more exact, with the swirling logo of Agreste Fashion stitched on the top of it. It was very possible that whatever was inside was worth more than all her jewellery combined—if he’d actually gotten her Agreste jewellery, that is.

Which was not possible. They’d been official friends for a day, there was no way.

Right?

Maybe he was he a lazy wrapper?

He held it out to her, the biggest smile on his face. “I brought a _gift_. A friendship gift.”

She gaped, not really knowing what to say. He seemed happy enough about it, and she was pretty sure he hadn’t gone ahead and splurged on an expensive present already. Emphasis on the ‘pretty sure’ part because, honestly, she had no idea what to expect with that box.

She took the box, turning it over in her hands to make sure she had in fact seen it right. Yep, there the Agreste Fashion butterfly was, clear as day. “A friendship gift?” she asked.

He nodded enthusiastically.

“You didn’t get me something expensive, did you?”

And his smile only got wider. “A princess deserves only the finest,” he said. “And so the finest is what she shall receive.”

Oh that was not good. He’d gotten her something expensive, hadn’t he?

Fear settling in her gut, she cracked open the box. Inside sat a cuff bracelet—with diamonds embedded in it, no less—stamped with Gabriel Agreste’s initials. The dreaded initials that, with their mere presence, went to show that there was no way those diamonds were fake. Her hopes that the box had just been repurposed were gone with the wind, and in came the utter shock that Chat Noir had gotten her something so expensive and expected her to take it just like that. But, in all honesty, there was no way she could accept something so expensive, absolutely no way. It wasn’t even feasible.

“Chat…” she started, trailing off when she realized the words weren’t coming. Her eyes were still locked on the bracelet in that box, and suddenly holding it was like trying to carry a thousand kilo weight in her bare hands.

But the way he beamed at her, at the gift… She didn’t want to reject it, yet there was no way she could accept it either.

He cocked his head, looking at her with a smug smile on his face. “Yes, Princess?”

“I…” She shuffled on her feet, stalling for a moment as best as she could. It was the only option she had.

“Love it? Adore it? Find it as paw-sitively amazing as me?”

“I can’t accept this,” she said. She closed the box and held it out to him and _prayed_ he’d take it back because she couldn’t just accept a thousand dollar bracelet at the drop of a hat like this, and she certainly couldn’t accept it from a man she’d just become friends with yesterday. Wealthy or not, her morals simply refused to allow it.

His face dropped, but he took the box. “Oh.”

“It’s not that I don’t love it—it’s… it’s _gorgeous._ But I don’t need you to buy me gifts.”

“But my princess-”

“Does not need gifts. No friendship gifts are necessary,” she said.

He nodded and fiddled with the box for a heartbeat, shoving it back in his pocket all the same. “No friendship gifts, got it,” he said. He looked up, and a smile grew across his face. “When’s your birthday?”

Goddammit. “Chat.”

“I don’t have anything to do with this now. I don’t wanna return it,” he said, shrugging innocently. “And as far as I know, birthday gifts are expected in a friendship. Does it not make purr-fect sense?”

She shook her head. As beautiful as that bracelet was, wearing it on her wrist would be like wearing a 30-kilo weight around for the heck of it. “Just return it,” she said. “I refuse to accept anything like _that,_ birthday or otherwise.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Keep it cheap. No… Agreste Fashion stuff.”

He let out a long sigh. “But-”

“Nope. If you spend 101€ on me, I’m finding your receipt and I’m returning it, hear me?”

“What about my golden personality?” he said, smiling wider. His face was going to split open if he kept it up. “I feel like that’s worth a lot.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

She already had so many regrets. “Just return the bracelet. You don’t have to buy me stuff.”

He hesitated, looking at her with pursed lips. Then he dipped into a bow. “The Princess’ word is law, and this humble knight shall abide by it.”

Just like she’d imagined.

She let loose another eye roll but smiled all the same.

So this was what she’d really gotten herself into. Maybe once in a while she’d be expected to give him a hug, which honestly she didn’t think would be too often, but it seemed like 95% of the time, she’d be dealing with… that. Nonsense and goofy smiles and puns.

It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

They said quick goodbyes, and Marinette was back on her way to the sub shop.

* * *

 

“That’ll be 9€, ma’am,” the spritely woman behind the cash register said.

Marinette fumbled to pull her wallet out of her purse. “Sorry, one sec,” she said.

Her wallet had somehow ended up slipping all the way to the bottom of her purse, and it seemed it did not want to be found there.

She grabbed at leather.

“Ah- ha?”

In her hand sat a leather little bracelet box that happened to feel exactly like her wallet. Except this had the Agreste Fashion logo on it.

The woman giggled. “I don’t think we’re that expensive, ma’am. Visa works though,” she said.

Marinette shoved the box back in her purse like it was on fire.

There was no way he’d… had he? Had he really slipped the bracelet box in her bag without her looking? Was she that oblivious? The box wasn’t exactly the kind you’d find a pair of earrings in—it was much wider, a lot slimmer, but still heavy enough that she thought she would notice it.

She pulled out her wallet and swiped her card without difficulty, ignoring Alya’s pointed looks as they stepped out of the sub place.

“Why do you have a-”

“It’s a long story,” she said. “A very, very long story.”

Alya threw her purse another glance but turned back as they made their way down the street again. “Alrighty then.”

That stupid, stupid cat. He’d slipped the bracelet in anyways, even though she’d very clearly said that she would not accept it, and now she was stuck lugging a couple thousand euros’ worth of diamonds around in her purse. There was nothing she could do about it either. She couldn’t just yell ‘Chat Noir’ out until he popped in and took it back, doing that was just too easy. And maybe a bit of a bad idea. She wasn’t doing it, and she was stuck with the bracelet regardless.

She walked on next to Alya.

“Why are there… police up ahead?” Alya asked.

Marinette snapped out of her thoughts, paying attention to the scene in front of her. A police cruiser sat, empty with the sirens off, on a short little side street a few metres away.

Alya walked up beside it, peeking around cautiously into the side street. Another police cruiser sat there, as stagnant as the other, and two police officers stood in front of a wall while another pulled police tape around a pole.

“What happened?” She asked, walking over.

The police looked over and noticed the two of them. “Oh nothing, mademoiselle. They’ve just been marking these off all over the city.”

Covering the exposed brick was a swirl of graffiti.

“Is that…” Marinette frowned at it.

“I’d bet money on it.” Alya walked up to the wall, running her fingers over it. The police didn’t try to stop her. “Looks like kitty’s been a little more active than we thought.”

“Oh.”

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda fluffy with the Marichat, but... it was such a cute idea I had to.
> 
> Also, I have an irrational hatred for page breaks. This pained me.


	6. Idiocy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late again! Life has been… messy, busy, etc. That, and this chapter went through like 5 different drafts. You know. Like I said, updates all require a little wiggle room depending on how stuff is going.
> 
> Also, arrondissement = a section in Paris

 

The police seemed to have smartened up.

In the three days that had passed since those doodles had first been discovered all over Paris, they seemed to have doubled the night patrols. They buzzed like hungry flies through the 7th and 19th arrondissements as soon as the sun set—staked out in alleyways, patrolling the streets, walking around in plain clothes, patrolling in an unlabelled car. They were everywhere. From their eyes, it was the most obvious place to start; a majority of the doodles had turned up in those two areas, so why not devote most of their time there?

The only concerning part was Chat. He just kept going back to those two arrondissements.

In the span of three days, he’d almost been caught four times total: twice on one night in the 7th, again there the next day, and once in the 19th. Somehow, he always ended up losing the cops before they could get too close for comfort, whether it be by cutting through an alley or ducking into a building. Every time Alya would forward a “breaking news” live stream or an updated map of Chat Noir sightings to her, she found her heart clenching in worry.

_Worry_.

She was worried about him and his stupid ass.

But it wasn’t like he was popping in to tell her what was happening with it all. She had a right to be worried—he hadn’t shown up since the bracelet incident. Three days, nearly 72 hours, and not a single peep about anything. She figured that, in any normal situation, she wouldn’t be quite so worried, but with the police running around like they were, getting so unnervingly close, she couldn’t help it—for all she knew, he could be caught at any second of any day. She’d even started leaving her balcony doors unlocked.

She sighed.

“So, if you map it all out, then the cops are right. He’s in the 7th and the 19th more than anywhere else,” Alya said, scooping up rice with her fork. “And while the 19th kinda makes sense… the 7th is filthy _rich_. Cops swarm that place-” She stopped herself, her eyes lighting up. “Wait.”

“What?” Marinette asked.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m an idiot.”

“ _What?”_

“He has to live there, in the 7th,” Alya said. “There’s no other reason for it. Why else would he go somewhere with so many cops?”

“Maybe that’s where he gets info. They are rich, right?”

Alya groaned. “Dang. And here I thought I was-”

Marinette tuned her out, too busy worrying about Chat to give a hoot about where he lived. Alya would probably figure something out then post it online or repeat it later, so she wasn’t exactly missing anything, was she?

No, she wasn’t.

She finished up dinner, helped Alya clean up, then made her way off to her room as usual, spinning off some lie about wanting a nap before they watched their movie later. Alya didn’t object.

“Hey there princess.”

She squeaked.

“Marinette, what was that?” Alya asked.

“I’m alright!” she called back, shutting the door as softly as she could.

He smiled, spinning around in her desk chair with all the nonchalant in the world. “Sorry,” he said, voice hushed. “Doors were unlocked, so I… yeah.”

She didn’t care. She was too busy freaking out in her brain, all the questions and worries she’d been shoving down for the past three days popping up again like there were little kids screaming them out in her brain. There he was, after three days of utter radio silence, sitting in her chair like it was nothing. No, she didn’t care that he’d let himself in.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “You almost got caught _four times_ , and you didn’t think to show up?”

His smile fell, mouth opening in a little ‘oh’ shape. The thought that she’d be worried hadn’t even occurred to him. “I… I guess,” he said, and a hand came up to rub the back of his head. “Sorry.”

“I was worried _sick_. I thought I’d turn on the news and you’d be behind bars already, you _idiot,”_ she said. “I kept waiting for you to make one mistake, you know. One mistake, and then the police would catch up with you, and they’d take that mask off your face, and then- god, Chat.”

Another “sorry” slipped out of his mouth. “I didn’t realize you cared so much, princess,” he said.

“Well I do,” she said. If the past few days had shown her anything, it was that. She cared. “Meaning you don’t get to pull crap like this again, hear me? No more stupid. No more running around the city all the time, don’t step foot back in the 7th or 19th arrondissements, and don’t even-”

“Uh…”

“What?”

“I might just happen to live in the 7th?” he said. “Everything else is entirely possible, I can totally stay out of the 19th. If that’s what my princess requests, then it shall be so. No more stupid,” he said, sitting up straight in her chair with a smile. “But I kinda need to be in the 7th.”

She sighed. Alya was right.

Everything, all the times he was almost caught over the past few days, started to make a bit more sense, clicking right on into place like it was supposed to. It explained why he’d almost been caught there twice in one night—once when he’d gone out, the other time when he’d gone back in. Maybe he wasn’t quite so stupid as she’d thought, not so much.

“ _That’s_ why you keep going back there…” she said. “You live there.”

Slowly, he nodded.

She looked at him, thinking for a moment. He didn’t act like a stuck-up 7th arrondissement kid, not really. She’d been almost willing to contradict Alya on her little ‘where does Chat live’ rant on that alone, since in real life he seemed more like a 19th kid than anything else.

A wicked smile came to her face. “You’re a posh kitty.”

“I wouldn’t use the word _posh_ to describe myself, per se,” he said, smiling. “But you can call me whatever you want, princess.”

“I like it. _Posh_ ,” she teased. “A posh kitty.”

It went ahead and explained the bracelet, didn’t it? The way he’d just given it to her like that, seeming like he didn’t realize how much money it was worth. He was one of those people that could just walk into a store and buy something like that, that cost thousands of dollars, without bothering to check the price tag. He’d liked it, so he’d bought it. Probably.

She got up and grabbed the leather box from her nightstand. “Posh or not, you’re taking this back,” she said.

He smirked. “You know, it’s paw-sitively rude to return gifts.”

“And I’d say it’s rude to sneak it in my purse,” she said, copying his smirk. “So I guess it evens out.”

“Oh, does it?”

“Yes, it does.” She held it out to him, trying to get him to just take it back already.

But he just looked at the box, then up at her, that smirk getting wider and wider. “It’s a gift. You’re supposed to keep it, and it’s supposed to remind you of _moi_ every time you wear it—like having a picture of me in your wallet, but better.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Oh _princess_ , don’t say such things,” he said. “You hurt my fragile kitty heart.”

His poor heart. Poor, poor _posh_ kitty heart, crushed because she didn’t want his gift. “You’ve been hurting my brain for the past three days. Suck it up and take it back,” she said. She’d already told him she wouldn’t accept it, he was going to take it back dammit.

“No.”

She sighed. “Take it.”

“No.”

“ _Chat_.”

“Unless you plan on putting a picture of me in your wallet for _real_ you’re keeping it. I’m not taking it back,” he said, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh.”

She huffed and sank down onto her bed. Apparently, she wasn’t going to be getting anywhere with asking. So really, once she got him to leave, she’d just have to beat him at his own game—shove it in his pocket before he left, give him a taste of his own stupid medicine.

She sighed, looking down the box in her hand. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll keep it.”

“You don’t want a picture of me?”

“Nope,” she said. She spared a glance at his totally _sad_ face, putting the bracelet back on her nightstand where she hoped it wouldn’t be staying for long.

And then, they sunk into two hours of chatting. Two hours of nothing but discussing every non-serious thing they could think up, making sure to stay quiet enough to keep Alya from suspecting a thing. They talked about their favorite Chinese places (“Like the cheap, fake stuff. Not _that”)_ , the fact that he smelled like a rich person (“Ew, Tom Ford? This is Creed, I’ll have you know”), and the best place to buy a mango in Paris (“nowhere,” they agreed).

She called him bourgeoisie, calling herself “a humble proletariat”, and he called her out for “being a commie.”

She smiled. “ _Marxist_ , mind you.”

He sighed in defeat. “I was going for a Stalin pun, you know. But you just had to Marx is up like that and throw me off.”

She admitted a quiet laugh. It hardly even made sense, but it didn’t seem to matter very much—she’d heard so much worse.

And things carried on like that until it came time for him to leave. The bracelet was, with little to no difficulty, slipped into his pocket. All it’d taken was the harmless suggestion of a goodbye hug, and she’d been able to just put it right back where it belonged, in his bourgeoisie pocket, to be taken back to his bourgeoisie house.

“Cat-ch you later, Princess.”

* * *

An hour later, once the clock struck 21:00 and she’d gotten those puns out of her head, Marinette joined Alya on the couch for some random movie.

And, conveniently, they’d had the news on last time they’d watched. Meaning that it was the first thing that popped up when Alya clicked on the TV.

“… _police are in pursuit of Chat Noir once again, this time in the west end of the 6th_ _arrondissement-”_

“Ooh,” Alya said, leaning forward with a frown. “The sixth? Not the 7th?”

She didn’t know what Alya was excited about—if he was going home to wherever he lived in the 7th, then it was entirely possible that he’d make his way through the 6th—but she entertained it anyways, watching on in silence.

Soon after, Alya said the same thing, insisting that they watch to make sure he made his way to the 7th, and Marinette made no objections. Her chest ballooned in worry every time they got close or he ducked out of sight of the camera.

She would’ve been much happier if there had been somebody else there—if it wasn’t _just_ him running around out there with no backup, no help, and nowhere to go if he got cornered. At the moment, if he happened to turn into a dead end, he’d be screwed over and left at the police’s whim.

Probably.

He did seem pretty good at scaling fire escapes, going by the number of times he’d climbed hers. But the point still stood. If she wanted to stop worrying, he was going to need somebody besides her. Like a sidekick or something to watch his back, not just a home to duck into if he needed to. She could leave her balcony doors unlocked all she wanted, but it wasn’t going to do squat if he was miles away and stuck in a bind.

Yes, he needed a sidekick to make sure he was safe.

A Robin to his Batman, of sorts.

As if that was going to happen.

Yet, when he disappeared once and for all from the news copter’s sight, escaping once again from the police’s grasp, she wondered what it’d be like. To have someone she trusted out there, helping him when he needed it and being there when she couldn’t.

It’d certainly give her a piece of mind. Make her worry less than she did right then. It’d be more comfortable to see two people running around under that copter’s gaze than just one, black-clad one.

Maybe… she turned to look at Alya

“Hey Alya,” she said.

Alya flicked through channels for a moment. “Hmm?”

She wanted to step back, just not ask. But something nagged her in the back of her brain. It was a risky question to pose, even riskier considering it was Alya she was talking to, but… if Marinette wanted anybody out there with Chat Noir, it was Alya. She could trust Alya to keep her word, to dedicate herself to whatever Chat Noir’s cause happened to be, to never leave him behind and never betray him. In fact, Marinette couldn’t think of anyone else she trusted so much, her parents excluded.

If anybody was going to be Chat Noir’s sidekick, it would be Alya.

“What… what would you do if you knew Chat Noir?” Marinette said, turning to make eye contact with her. “I mean, I’m just saying- like… theoretically.”

Alya gave her a sort of odd look, something resembling confusion, but answered anyway. “I wouldn’t betray him, if that’s what you’re asking. No blog would be worth that,” she said, muting the TV for a moment. Silence descended over the room. “ _If_ I met Chat Noir then… It’d be the best day of my _life_ , mind you, but I think I’d try to be friends with him?” she said.

Marinette nodded slowly.

“I’ve never really given it much thought,” Alya said. “It would be cool though. I’d be like… I’d help him run around Paris, taking care of baddies and stuff.”

“You’d want to be his sidekick?” Marinette said.

“I suppose so. More like a partner than a sidekick.”

She hesitated but muttered out a “cool” and a nod.

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh! I-” she fumbled for an answer. “He just seems like he could use a sidekick, I guess. I mean, it’s not like I _know_ him or anything, but I mean he just seems… yeah,” she said, rambling on. “The police a- are after him so much… I just wondered what it’d be like if there was someone else.”

Alya laughed. “Fair point,” she said, looking back to the TV. “It would be cool if he had a sidekick. Like Harley Quinn and the Joker. Or… nah, not them. If he’s crazy, I’m not stepping foot towards him.”

“Like Batman and Robin.”

She nodded. “Yeah. I’d be the Batman to his Robin.”

With that, she flicked through another channel. Ironically, they watched ended up watching the Avengers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent chapter length who?
> 
> Also, this story has so much more friendship Marichat than I thought it would? Like what???


	7. Bright Lights and Cityscapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly swear this isn’t supposed to sound like a Marichat romance. I had too much fun here though, so… Just remember: platonic Marichat.

An hour and a half later, the Avengers was still playing along on screen. Marinette hardly paid it any attention—she’d seen it already, after all.

For some reason, she still couldn’t muster up the courage to bring up the sidekick thing again. Every time she thought she could, her tongue would get stuck to the roof of her mouth or her breath would hitch or something would happen, and she’d be right back at square one. Her courage would dash away as soon as she’d found it, and not even a surprised squeak would tumble out her mouth.

She knew part of it was uncertainty. She prided herself on knowing Alya like the back of her hand, but to be honest, she didn’t really know what her reaction was going to be. She didn’t know what Alya would think, do, or say about the whole thing.

On one hand, it was very likely that Alya’s eyebrow would raise, and she wouldn’t believe a word that Marinette said. After all, saying you knew Chat Noir was pretty brave when you had no proof to back it up, and Alya was already the type to require proof on simpler things. Marinette didn’t have any proof, did she? She’d snuck any chance at proof out in Chat’s pocket just hours before, and even then, presenting that bracelet would be a stretch. Alya trusted her, and she trusted Alya, but there was still a line where suspicion was stronger than trust.

On the other hand, maybe Alya would believe her. After all, Marinette had never given her any reason to think she was lying, had she?

But, even then…

If Alya believed her, it was hard to say that all that sidekick talk had been serious. Maybe she’d be perfectly happy about it all, maybe she was completely serious about the whole thing, had meant it when she said she’d want to be his partner. But that was a very big maybe. Talking the talk was one thing, but actually thinking about doing it? Saying you’d be happy to be Chat Noir’s partner and actually doing it were two completely different things—the whole scenario was the literal definition of ‘easier said than done’. Even if Alya was going to believe her, which was unlikely as it stood, there was a very little chance that conversation had been anything more than a vague hypothetical.

Which was exactly what it’d been in Alya’s mind, wasn’t it. Marinette had literally presented the conversation as a hypothetical, an “if you _could_ , would you?” situation. There hadn’t been much else she could do, but… still.

And thus, her dilemma. She’d spent an hour and a half flipping back and forth in her brain over and over and over. She’d plotted all there was to plot, thought through every possible contingency, but she always ended up at square one all over again, wondering what Alya was going to do.

“Marinette,” Alya said. The remote was in her hand, the Avengers paused. “Why do keep looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m going to explode or something.” She tossed the remote back on the table, casting a suspicious glance at Marinette.

Code red. Code red. Alya knew everything, it was time to just give up and spill the beans. Code _red_ . _Code red_.

“You didn’t plant a bomb on me, did you?” Alya said, smiling.

Okay, so not code red just yet. Code… yellow? Suspicious Alya probably aligned up with yellow, did it not? Marinette smiled, her panic dissipating just like that.

“Maybe just a little one,” she said, casting a glance Alya’s way.

“How long do I have?”

A wicked smile grew on Marinette’s face. “10… 9… 8…”

“Shit. Marinette, why.”

“6… 5… 4…”

“Tell my sisters I love them.”

“2… 1…”

Alya jumped off the couch and flung her blankets up in the air, making the most dramatic exploding sounds she could make and flopping onto the floor. “I’m dead. _Dead_ , I tell you. I hope you’re happy.”

Marinette laughed, watching Alya climb back onto the couch and bury herself back under the blankets.

And then the suspicious glance was back. “But… if I’m not _really_ going to explode…”

There’s the code red.

“Then what’s with the looks?” Alya asked. She tilted her head like a curious little kitten, looking up at Marinette behind those big glasses of hers in a way that just made Marinette want to tell her everything right then and there.

But, yet again, no words came to her lips. Indecision had struck her once again, and she was left just sitting there in silence for a moment, saying nothing.

“Uh…” Marinette said. She trailed off before she could say anything, looking down at her hands then back up at Alya.

An idea struck. It was a bit of an odd excuse, but it’d work.

“Well…” she said, “I was wondering if Nino’s birthday is coming up? I saw you looking for gifts on your phone, but I didn’t want to ask though, since it might be… kinda weird. I mean, he’s your boyfriend. And we’re not the closest friends, I guess.” She hoped the rambling wasn’t too off-putting, however purposeful it happened to be.

It was an unexpected reason, by the look on Alya’s face. Far from the weirdest Marinette had ever come up with, but hey, at least it was based in truth. She really had seen Alya looking through headphones on Amazon earlier.

“Nah girl, Nino doesn’t care who gets him a present, close friend or not. More stuff he doesn’t have to pay for,” Alya said, smiling wide again. “His birthday’s next Wednesday.”

Marinette nodded. Now she had to get Nino a birthday present. Not that she minded very much, it wouldn’t be hard to take a little elbow grease and some fabric and make him a present. He seemed to like beanies, so maybe she could do that and get a little knitting practice in. Yeah. Win-win, nobody loses.

Again, it was far from the worst excuse she’d ever made.

With the movie stopped, Alya reasoned it was time for more popcorn, mumbling something about Nino on her way to the kitchen.

Marinette realized that she’d just blown a perfectly good chance. She’d had it, and she’d let it go. Her brain had just gone code red and blared off a couple sirens in her head for her. No progress whatsoever.

She sighed and slumped into the back of the couch.

She’d ask another time. She had time.

* * *

Two days passed, and Marinette had not made any progress towards bringing up the sidekick thing again. There was a dam in the back of her brain, holding her tongue back every time she tried to say something. She’d just end up squeaking, then she’d just have to make another excuse.

Chat was sitting in front of her TV, completely enraptured by an old episode of Looney Tunes. Roadrunner and Coyote ran across the screen time and time again. She knitted and watched along.

“Hey Marinette?” he said. He paused the TV, looking back at her.

“Hmm?” she asked.

“I come here a lot, yeah?” he said.

“If you’re asking if I mind, I don’t.”

“No, it’s not that.” A small smile grew on his face. “If you minded, you’d be trying to shove me out the door.”

She smiled. That was probably not true, but she didn’t blame him for thinking so. She didn’t think she could get rid of him if she wanted to—he seemed about as stubborn about things as her sometimes. She nodded along anyways.

“I was just wondering… if you’d wanna go outside?” he asked, looking up at her for an answer.

“Right now?”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said, shrugging. “But I think Paris is paw-sitively gorgeous this time of night.”

It sounded like it would be amazing. Beautiful. Like living through those pictures you could find if you typed ‘Paris’ in the search bar. The moon, the stars, the breeze—all there.

But still, she hesitated. It certainly seemed like it’d be more fun than knitting Nino a hat—as much as she loved gifting things, seeing Paris as Chat Noir saw it sounded like something much more… exciting. Thrilling. It sounded like climbing fire escapes and running through the streets and hopping the gaps between the rooftops.

The only problem was… her face. If anybody _at all_ saw them, she’d be plastered all over newspapers and gossip magazines, pulled in for questioning by the police, her whole life would go down the toilet. She didn’t have a mask like he did.

“Will anybody see us?” she asked softly.

“Does anybody ever see me?”

She shook her head.

“I brought you a mask, purr-incess, don’t worry,” he said, winking. And out from his pocket came a folded up, black little mask with a strap around the back of it. “Just wear something dark, and nobody will look twice.”

And that was how, a few minutes and a quick duck in her closet later, Marinette found herself opening the balcony doors and following him out. She had her own dark hoodie on, a pair of leggings to match, and simple sneakers—plain, dark, and unnoticeable, just like he’d said to be. The hood was pulled over her face, the mask over her eyes.

She climbed up onto the railing, trying not to look over the edge with all her might. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, couldn’t _believe_ she was _doing this._ What was she thinking? She eyed the gap between her railing and the fire escape, where Chat stood by himself waiting for her.

“I won’t let you fall,” he said, holding out a hand.

Through the window, the TV played—Alya and Nino were curled up together, watching Thor 2. It seemed Alya was intent on catching up; the night before, Marinette had been forced through Iron Man 3, and the Avengers before that.

This seemed like it was so much better than any Marvel movie.

She cast a glance at Chat, then down at the railing in front of her. It had to only be a metre or so, maybe a little more. She’d jumped further before, had she not? She took his hand, stretching herself over the gap to land beside him on the fire escape.

Her heart was already thudding away in her chest, nervousness and excitement dancing around in her head. She gave him a nod. He nodded back.

And then, before she had a chance to process what was happening, he was leading her down the fire escape. He tugged her along with an eager smile on his face and a bounce in his step, his sneakers still _somehow_ noiseless against the metal steps.

Soon, they were standing in the alley between her building and the next. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, casting the whole alley in shadows.

“Where to?” she asked, looking around. There wasn’t much there that she could see, but then again, she didn’t know Paris like he seemed to. There could be a secret passageway a couple metres away, and she’d have no idea it was there, would she? She felt like a tourist in her own hometown.

He smiled wickedly. “That’s a sur-purr-ise.”

Oh, so he had plans, did he? And no small ones, going by the look on his face. She smiled back at him, “Now I’m worried.”

“Don’t be,” he said, tugging her closer. “Trust in your loyal knight, and no harm will come to you, milady.”

“I trust you.”

He opened his mouth, paused, and looked her right in the eyes. Surprise. He was surprised to hear her say she trusted him.

He stood there for a second before he seemed to remember what was going on, that he was supposed to be saying something. He rubbed the back of his neck, taking a half-step back. “Right, well… that’s good. This may or may not require a piggy-back ride.”

“Are you sure?” She wasn’t exactly the heaviest person on the planet, but carrying someone and running around sounded difficult at the very least.

He nodded. “I work out a lot, don’t worry,” he said, and for emphasis, he flexed his arm up in the air, smirking at her again.

She rolled her eyes.

“Now, c’mon,” he said. He took her wrist and tugged her down the alleyway, deeper into the darkness and into the corners where the streetlamp couldn’t touch. He stopped, looking up at a different fire escape, one with the ladder already pulled down—he’d pulled it down. “Now, we’re going to climb this to the top, then you’re going to have to get on my back. It doesn’t go up to the roof,” he said, pointing up at it.

She nodded.

They walked up the fire escape as quietly as they could manage. He went up onto the roof first, changing his mind just then about the piggyback thing. Instead, he just pulled her up, and she scrambled onto the roof.

And then, all of a sudden, there was the Paris she’d been thinking about. The bright lights and the sounds and the things that just made Paris so… _Paris_. The apartment building was far from the tallest building in the city, but there weren’t many tall buildings in Paris—she could still see everything sprawling like a blanket out before her.

“Wow,” she said, turning away from the edge.

“This is nothing,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. It was the kind of twinkle that she was supposed to be afraid of, that she would’ve been afraid of a week ago, but she knew he wasn’t going to do anything stupid. “Just wait till we get to the good part.”

“It’s better than this?” she asked.

“Doesn’t even compare.”

They lingered there on top of the apartment building for a moment. She looked out over the city, taking it all in, and he stood there in silence with that same twinkle in his eyes.

She turned away from the city one last time, burning the memory of it in her head. She never wanted to forget it, even if she forgot everything else. “Alright, let’s go,” she said.

And with that, she was hoisted onto his back. He ran along the rooftops, hopping along wherever he could, taking leaps that made her screw up her eyes in worry. He laughed at her when he landed, mocking her worried “oh god”s and asking her time and time again if it was okay. She kept saying yes.

It was unnerving, being up so high. He could laugh all she wanted, at least she wasn’t screaming like an idiot on a roller coaster or sinking her nails into his neck. She told him so much, and he just laughed again, calling her a “purr-ety funny purr-incess” and earning another eye roll.

Over the rooftops, he carried her. Paris glittered like a moonstone far below, the streets silent when they went through a neighbourhood, louder when they passed by busier areas. He laughed when she let out a whoop over the noise of the cars, whooping along with her. A smile stayed on her face like a tattoo, never leaving even when her cheeks got tired.

She filed away the images of Paris in her head, trying so very hard to make sure they never left her. If she forgot… then she wouldn’t try to get it back. Paris wasn’t what really mattered, it was the moment of seeing it for the first time again, looking at it like she knew people were supposed to do before they died. If she lost the picture, it would stay lost, but she’d try to hold onto it as long as she could.

He stopped along the edge of a rooftop, setting her down gently. “Now, we’ve just gotta do down this fire escape, then down the street a little way,” he said, pointing off in the distance.

She nodded.

In silence, they made their way down to the street. The ladder for the fire escape was already pulled down. He really had planned this out, had spent a good deal of time on it. Then, he was tugging her down the street, pulling his hood higher over his head and ducking it down. She copied him, and then they were making their way down the mostly-deserted street, ducking into alcoves and into alleyways for half a block. Eventually, he stopped next to a door.

“Now, this should be open…” He twisted the doorknob, and the door popped right on open. “There we go.”

She looked between him and the door. “Chat, are we breaking in?” she asked, unsure. He wasn’t exactly on the side of the law, and he seemed like the door was _supposed_ to be unlocked, but still, she had to make sure. Graffiti was one thing, breaking in was another.

He shook his head. “You’ll be surprised what you can do if you grease the right hands,” he said, throwing in another wink.

She let herself be concerned for about half a second. It wasn’t hurting anybody, was it? No, it wasn’t. She pushed any worry out of her head and let herself be tugged in through the door.

He walked in a little while, muttering something about “night vision” before flicking a switch and pulling her inside. They kept walking, until she was standing on a dark stage, barely visible with the stage lights off. He disappeared, turned on the lights, and came back.

A piano stood on the stage, empty red seats sitting in the audience.

“Welcome to the Olympia!” he said, throwing out his arms. He let out a laugh, like a little kid, when his voice echoed around the hall. Add in the Looney Tunes, and she was taking off years in her head—he acted like a twelve-year-old, could you blame her?

“Chat, what’re we doing here?”

“I thought I’d serenade my princess,” he said, approaching the piano.

“You know piano?” she asked, as if he was going to whip out a flute and start dancing around the stage with it just for the fun of it. Stupid question.

He smiled anyway. “I’ll have you know, sweet princess, that I’ve been playing most of my life. This kitty is a bit _posher_ than you think.”

She laughed. “And classy too, I suppose.”

“Are you implying that you thought I _wasn’t_ classy?”

“I’m saying you’re very classy, kitty. You’re a classy, _posh_ kitty that knows piano,” she said, sticking her chin up in the air.

He smiled wider, sitting down on the bench. “Do you know how to play?” he asked, looking back at her. He patted the seat next to him, on the lower half of the bench. “I know a couple duets.”

“Oh no, I can’t play,” she said. “Practically tone deaf.” That was, if you asked Nino’s opinion on it. She didn’t consider herself actually tone deaf. That said, she had no musical talent, nor could she play the piano beyond a simple C scale.

Chat just shrugged, seeming perfectly okay with that. “I’ll play for both of us then,” he said, smiling wider.

A bit reluctantly, she sat down next to him on the bench, making sure to take up the smallest amount of room possible. If he was going to be playing, then she didn’t want to be taking up all the room on the bass end, invited to sit or not.

He put his hands on the keys, looking at her. “You ready?”

“Play for me, Maestro Noir,” she said, nudging his shoulder.

“I like it. Maestro Noir,” he said, looking down to the keys. “I might use that.”

She laughed.

He waited for a second, focus coming over his face, fingers ghosting over the right keys for just a second. She held her breath.

And then he began to [play](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dyo4tNwNIvQ).

It started off slow and soothing, nothing more than a soft melody and a bass line. His hands moved like silk along the keys, sliding along the keys up and down and up and down like it was nothing. Something in it sounded mournful and sad, something in the chords and the way his hands barely seemed to press the keys.

A moment passed, and then the song picked up, the lower hand moving while the top kept playing the same soothing melody over it, his hands moving faster and faster, until she was just sitting there memorized. He kept playing, focus on his face, the piano singing with each key he pressed.

Something about the song was so… melancholy. It felt like warm hot chocolate on a cold winter’s night, like she was being bundled up in her parent’s arms and hugged as the song went along and along. But it was different. It was like the fading memory of those moments, like the feeling when you only remember the vaguest part of them, only the fun you had and the moment you shared. It was when you tried to remember, only to find that you only remembered the memory of the moment, not the moment itself. It was sad in all the right ways, happy in the same sense, soft even as his hands sped up and the sound crescendoed. He kept playing and playing, the sound echoing around the room as his hands seemed to bang against the keys, he was playing so loud.

But then, as soon as it’d sped up, it slowed down. The same soft, slow melody played over the bass line, the rush gone, the same feeling of stillness and calm back once again. He slowed down more, until he was barely playing a song at all, nothing more than a handful of notes slowed down too much to be recognizable.

When he hit the last note, it rang around the hall, echoing back and back again, ringing in her ears like some mournful memory she didn’t think she’d ever get rid of. It was sad, it was happy, and she never wanted to let it go.

“Chat…” she breathed. No words came to her tongue, nothing but a smile to her face. She didn’t even know anybody could play like that, let alone something so soft and happy yet so sad.

“You liked it?” he asked, turning to her.

“Liked it? I… I…” She stopped, trying to find the right words.  “That was beautiful.”

“Beautiful?”

She nodded. “Beautiful.”

They sat there in silence, but all Marinette could hear was that song, playing over and over in her brain like a sad echo bouncing around her head. She couldn’t put it into words, nor could she even think to remember what the tune had really sounded like. It was morphed, had become something completely different and anew in her brain, had become its own memory. She never wanted to forget it.

She decided not to ask him what it was called. It could stay like it was, she didn’t need to hear anybody else play it again. There was no need. “You were right. A view of Paris is nothing compared to that,” she said, her voice low.

He smiled a goofy smile. “I’m glad you liked it, Princess.”

* * *

Marinette saw Paris like it was brand new when he carried her home. The lights were brighter, the cars quieter, the sky deeper—it was like a new set of lens had been slipped over her eyes, and at last she could see what was really there. Paris, as it was supposed to be.

A song shouldn’t affect her that much. It was just a song. It was notes and chords, nothing more than sounds made by hands pushing keys.

But the way he’d played it, the way everything just seemed to smooth and sound and _oh_ it was literally music to her ears, beautiful, bittersweet music to her ears. She’d wanted to ask him to play it again and again, just so she could listen to it over and over, but she didn’t.

They climbed back up her fire escape, clearing the gap between the railing and the balcony faster than they had the first time. The song still played in her head all the way. But not in an annoying way, not like getting that same old Taylor Swift song stuck in your head; no, it was as far as you could get from that. It was different.

She stepped back into her bedroom. The lenses on her eyes were still there, made everything seem and feel different than it had when she’d left. She turned to look at him. “Thank you, Chat,” she said. “That was… amazing.”

He lingered on the railing, perched there just as he had every other time. A slight smile, a shy one, if you wanted to call it that, came to his face. “You’re welcome, princess. It was my pleasure.”

They exchanged quiet goodbyes, and he was gone. Looney Tunes was still paused on the TV.

Marinette stood there, staring at the TV. Wile E. Coyote stood there, frozen in the middle of his scheming just as he had been when she’d left.

Her thoughts drifted. To Chat. To that song. To the way the music had filled up inside of her and left her head bursting with old memories trying to make their way out. She wondered how it was even possible for a song to do that, how it could make her look at a city she’d seen her whole life with fresh eyes.

She still had that mask on, she realized.

She pulled it off. Stared at it.

And she realized:

She wanted to do all of that again.

No, that was wrong—she wanted to do it a thousand more times. She wanted to run along Paris’ rooftops and see the lights and hear that song and do all those wonderful things all over again and again.

She wanted to put that mask on again. She wanted to be by Chat’s side.

She _wanted_ to be by his side.

She wanted to run along Paris’ rooftops with him, by his side instead of on his back, and she wanted to talk and banter and do whatever it was he did when he went out. She wanted to learn how to paint with spray paint. There was just… something about it—about being up there, outside, feeling alive and dashing about—that made her just want to be the one. She wanted to be the one to watch his back and be there, both as his partner and as Marinette, and she didn’t…

She didn’t want it to be Alya. She wanted it to be her.

Having Alya be there would be phenomenal. Amazing. But there was just _something_ Marinette couldn’t explain, something telling her that she had to do it, that it was her job and she was the only one. It couldn’t be Alya. She was supposed to be Chat’s partner.

Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the sights. She didn’t really know what it was, but there was something, something she felt staring at that mask in her hand, that told her.

She was supposed to be his partner.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat’s song: La Valse D’Amelie. Should be linked in the text.


	8. Lucky Enough to be Unlucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha you guys thought my “Friday update” would actually be on Friday? Ha.
> 
> Also, I can finally share my inspiration for this whole thing: TheBirdFromTheMoon-Art’s Anti Hero AU! Check her out on Tumblr, her art’s amazing.

 

Marinette stared at the mask in her hand. It was red, plain and simple, with black dots across it. A ladybug theme. Elaine’s suggestion.

She’d been out for lunch with her, chatting aimlessly about recent events, and Marinette asked what colour she thought would look best. It had been a harmless, flippant question, and it wasn’t supposed to mean anything—she’d already bought some black fabric and fully intended on using it. But then Elaine had cried something along the lines of “Oh! Only red for _ma_ _coccinelle_!” Showing her the unfinished design had made it even worse because, before Marinette knew what was happening, “rouge” was written in capital letters on the side of her design. In pen.

And so red had been chosen. Black would’ve been preferable, considering how much she was sure she’d spend running about at night, but apparently full black “would not do” and “will make you look like you don’t eat”. Then Elaine followed her to the fabric shop. Marinette had been forced to go for dark red. And if that wasn’t enough, it just so happened that the “coccinelle” part of the whole conversation seemed to have stuck with Elaine a bit too much, and they happened to have the right pattern in the right colour. So the costume ended up burgundy and black with a ladybug pattern.

The mask had, naturally, had to match.

So she’d made the mask. The one Chat had given her was safely tucked away in her drawer, the red one in her hand waiting to be put on.

And so there she stood, staring at the polka dots on the mask. In essence, it was nothing more than a piece of fabric—it wasn’t supposed to feel so heavy in her hands, nor was it supposed to be so hard to convince herself to put it on. She was just supposed to put it on and go out, but still she just stood there, staring at it and trying to convince herself to put it on.

Metaphorically speaking, putting on the mask was like finally putting her money where her mouth was. It was telling herself that she was really going through with it, no matter how crazy or absurd it sounded or how insane she thought she was just for doing it. She had to put it on. Chat needed somebody, and she was the one who had to do it—she  _ wanted _ to do it.

She wanted to be his partner, and all she had to do was put on the mask, step out those doors, and track him down. It sounded simple enough, did it not? Besides, the mask was no different than the rest of the outfit, right? And she’d already put that on. She’d already gotten so far, it was no time to be backing out.

She took in a deep breath, steeling herself.

And slid the mask on her face.

There. Easy.

She looked up at the mirror, tilting her head at the strange-looking version of herself standing there. It felt like another woman was staring back at her with a stolen mouth and eyes, and Marinette’s own bangs swept across her forehead.

She smiled, and the woman in the mirror smiled back. Put her hands on her hips, and the same thing happened, until before she realized what she was doing, Marinette had struck a pose in the mirror, and what would you know, the other woman struck it too.

She was there in that mask, and she was looking back at herself.

_ She _ was that other woman standing proud in the mirror.

And she was going to be Chat Noir’s partner.

It was with that resolve that she flung her balcony doors upon and made her way to the fire escape. Somewhere along the line, between climbing up onto the railing and telling herself not to look down, a smile spread across her face. She could do it. She  _ wanted _ to do it, she was practically made just to do it.

She ended up down in the alleyway just as she’d been a few short days ago. It was as damp, cold, and dark as it’d been, with the streetlamp casting the same long shadows as before.

She paused.

Looking around, she noticed the ladder for the fire escape across the way was still down, and, not knowing how else to get on the roof, she climbed up it. All she intended to do that night was wander around Paris by her lonesome. She had no spray paint on her and no plans in her head, just an hour of nothing to do. She wanted to spend it walking around the city, trying to figure out where she was supposed to go, and hopefully not get lost in the process.

She had to figure it out on her own, and she had time to do so. It wasn’t like she could pick up “Chat Noir’s Guide to Paris” at a bookstore or find a Wikihow on the subject. No, she was alone in it.

But that was fine.

So she pulled herself up the ladder, then up the fire escape, clambering up onto the roof just as she had before.

And, just as before, there was Paris.

Her city.

It was the same as it’d been with Chat, nothing but a glittering jewel before her, spreading out towards the line on the horizon below her. It was just as breath-taking, just as beautiful.

Something in her told her she’d never get tired of it.

It felt odd to stand there without Chat alongside her. She was by herself, with nobody around to laugh at her or make jokes or play a pretty song on the piano for her, nobody by her side. It felt off. A little empty. Like he was supposed to be there.

But that was a problem she intended to fix.

She smiled again, stepping back from the ledge, and picked a direction.

Then raced off.

Paris swam by in a haze of colour, nothing more than a blur. Flashes of lights whizzed by. The wind blew cool on her face. Her heart raced faster and faster in her chest, and she took all the longest jumps she trusted herself to make, taking bigger gaps with each roof she crossed.

She was reliving it all over again, but this time it was just that much more fun—running by herself just made it so much more fun. Her blood thrummed, her legs ached, and there was a smile on her face.  She marked landmarks in her head just as she would’ve if she was going for a walk, pushing herself to go faster and faster until the gaps in the roofs seemed smaller.

She could run for hours. She could be up there for hours.

She felt  _ alive _ .

It was thrilling. God, it was amazing and it was thrilling and she knew now how much she wanted to just keep doing it until she couldn’t anymore. She could run and run until her legs gave out or her heart gave up, and she’d welcome it with open arms. It was worth it.

She skid to a stop when she ran out of roof.

Looking out over Paris, she saw that it was still as gorgeous as she remembered. She breathed in long, let it out, and let her eyes fall closed for a moment, letting it all wrap around her. In that moment, there was nothing but the sounds of the city and the breeze all around her.

She opened her eyes. Keep going.

Looking around, she noticed a ladder peeking up from the edge of the roof. A fire escape, ripe and ready for her to use it.

And that was when she’d heard the hissing. That telltale sound of spray paint.

Maybe ladybugs were lucky after all.

She looked over the edge, and there he stood. There was that familiar sunflower-blond head of hair spinning a bottle around in his hand 50 metres down. He frowned at the brick wall, spun the bottle again, then picked up another bottle and kept going. Other bottles sat tossed across the ground behind him, some looking more beat-up than others, some laying with caps nowhere to be seen.

He made swirl here, a polka dot here, another swirl somewhere else, then he’d step back and admire it a little before starting the process over again. She sat there, watching, for a little while, amused by the way he seemed to dance around as he went and shift around gracefully on his feet.

She sat there, mesmerized, for a minute or two. She’d never seen him paint before; nobody ever did, not really. He was always running away from the cameras and the police, not standing around and doodling while they watched.

Something near the end of the alley shifted.

“What…” she muttered, watching.

There was a derelict car parked at the end of the alley. It was rusty and old, something she wouldn’t even think to touch without a tetanus shot on hand. Derelict, abandoned, however you wanted to put it, the car looked like it’d seen much better days, like it’d been sitting there for at least a year. The thing, whatever it was, was behind the car. Eyes reflected in the darkness, big and round—no, they were goggles, not eyes.

Chat Noir hadn’t noticed it yet. He just went along humming a tune under his breath and added a spot here, a line there, completely oblivious to whatever was happening.

The person moved again, slowly advancing towards him.

She was tempted to call out Chat’s name and get his attention. But that’d just give the thing an opening—she’d distract Chat just long enough for the thing to strike. Instead, she thought quick, creeping down the fire escape as quietly as she could manage.

She slid down the last ladder and stuck to the shadows as best as she could, taking in the stranger again. Wild hair was slicked back and shoved under a baseball cap, a hoodie drawn over the whole mess. Their clothes were shabby, their face completely hidden by the gas mask. They didn’t look like a cop, and she doubted they were one. Anybody working for anybody could be under that mask—Chat Noir had a lot of enemies in high places, and she doubted they wouldn’t be willing to take revenge into their own hands.

She was on the last set of stairs when the person advanced.

A gun gleamed in their hand.

“Hey,  _ pussy! _ ”

Chat dropped his bottle, and he jerked his head to look at the stranger. “Uh…” He cast a glance between her and Mssr Gas Mask, focusing on the gun for a moment. “Can I help you two?” he asked.

The stranger clicked the safety off. “I think you can help me cross some things off my list.”

Chat stiffened. “Hey now, no need to get all trigger happy,” he said. A smirk came across his face—staring down the barrel of a gun, and there he was smirking again like an idiot. “Blood doesn’t too go well with brick. I’d rather not clash. It'd be awfully un-furr-tunate."

And joking. He was joking with the person holding a gun.

The stranger stepped forward, the gun still trained between Chat’s eyes. Marinette stayed frozen in place.

She couldn’t just stand there. This was the whole point of her going out and doing this, to make sure Chat didn’t get himself stuck in a bad situation out by himself. Whether he got killed or caught, a bad situation was a bad situation, and with that look on his face, he was about to make it so much worse.

The stranger’s hand tightened on the gun, and they stopped just a metre or so away from Chat. He stood there, frozen just like her.

Her eyes locked with Chat’s for nothing more than a second, and she gave him a short nod. She wanted him to know that she was on his side, that she was going to help him take down that stranger with a gun.

He gave a slight, if hesitant, nod back.

She looked back to the stranger.

“You know,” he said, smiling wider. The look in his eyes was calm and relaxed. “Pointing a gun at someone is generally considered a sign of-”

“Shut up,” the stranger said.

Chat’s smile dropped for a half-second, and he let loose a shrug. “Whatever you say.”

He sent her a glance and nodded slightly.

That was her cue.

She sprang forward, tackling the stranger to the ground as quickly as she could. With a bang, the gun went off, and the sound ricocheted around the alleyway.

“Duck!”

She ducked, and Chat sprang over her head, wrapping his arms around the stranger’s legs. They kicked out, but he held firm, while she tried to keep their torso from wrangling about. She clutched to their chest like it was some kind of life raft, and when they didn’t stop, she punched them in the face with a loud  _ thump _ .

“You got ‘em, bug girl?” Chat said, sitting on the legs.

She barely missed getting her own punch to the face. “Not  _ really! _ ”

He stood up and, without much ceremony, stomped the stranger right in the gas mask.

In seconds, he had the gas mask peeled off and tossed on the ground. He was so at ease about the whole thing, it seemed out-of-place, different than something the Chat she knew would do when disarming someone. He hadn’t even gone for the gun yet.

“Is this normal for you?” Marinette asked, leaning forward. She stood herself up and looked over at the stranger’s face sans gas mask. It was a woman, with pink hair hidden in her hood and a trail of red leaking down her nose. She was passed out.

“It’s-” he stopped himself, looking up at her. “She’s always pulling this crap on me,” he said, chuckling. He picked up the gun and pulled out the magazine, showing her. “See? Paintball gun.” He tossed it to the ground. “Her acting’s getting better.”

Marinette stepped back. “Oh.”

He turned back to her, standing up. She was suddenly all-too-aware of how much taller he was. “Now that that’s handled,” he said, “Care to tell me who you are?”

She paused. The name thing was still undecided. In her defence, she hadn’t planned on meeting anybody that day, had just wanted to explore Paris for a little while.

“Eh…” she said, rushing to think of what to say. “I’m a friend.”

“A friend?” He smirked. “No name?”

She nodded.

“Bug will have to do then.”

That was what she got. Didn’t think up a name fast enough, and she was stuck with ‘Bug’ for a temporary name. She’d have to put up with it till she came up with something better, if she ever came up with anything that made a lick of sense.

“Now Bug,” he said, walking around her. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”

“You looked like you were in trouble,” she said.

“Did I?” he said, putting a hand to his face in thought. He smirked.

She smiled. “Like a damsel in distress.”

“That’s an… interesting image,” he said. “But what about before the gun part?”

“Uh…” She paused, thinking. She couldn’t just say she was watching him—that was creepy, and it certainly wouldn’t explain the way she was dressed. “I… uh- I want to help you,” she said, trying a smile.

He blinked at her. “Help me?”

She nodded.

“You’re a fan, right?” he asked, looking her over again.

“Eh… not in the way you think. I’m not like that owl guy,” she said. “Different circumstances.”

“And those are?”

“Umm…” she said. Different circumstances meant, in her brain, that she was Marinette and she wanted to help him. But she didn’t think saying that out loud would go over too well—saying her own name to begin with was probably a bad idea. “That’s confidential,” she said instead.

“Confidential, eh?” he asked, stepping back. He stepped over gas mask girl on the ground, picking up a bottle of paint.

She nodded.

“Confidential…” he repeated, a thoughtful look on his face. He spun the bottle in his hands for a moment, then he tossed it to her, a smile on his face. “Alright then. Show me whatcha got, Spots.”

She caught the bottle.

From the smile on his face to the easy-going demeanour, it was obvious that he was just humouring her. Everything about the situation just blared off those telltale ‘fake’ sirens in her head. Although, in his situation, it was the smart thing to do. The fan would paint, be complemented by their idol, and be sent on their merry way, content enough not to come out ever again. It was genius, and it probably worked on any other fanatics running out in homemade suits.

But, unbeknownst to him, she was not just another fanatic.

She looked down at the bottle in her hands, then up at him. “I don’t… know how to paint,” she said.

His face dropped. “You don’t know how to paint?”

She nodded.

“But you want to help me?”

Again, she nodded.

He stopped for a moment, a thoughtful look coming over his face. “Well I’m afraid that’s kinda one of the job requirements,” he said, trying on an easy smile. “But I’m assuming you knew that.”

She fell silent, not sure how to respond.

“If you don’t want to paint with me—or rather, you don’t know how to paint,” he said, fixing her with a scrutinizing look, “Then what’re you here for?”

“It’s not what you think,” she hurried to say. “I’m not like… It’s just- I’m just worried about you. With all the-”

“You’re worried about me?” he asked, stepping forward. “Bug, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I’d say that’s not the best reason to be out here. I’ve been doing this for years.”

Her heart sank. There was no ill meaning or malignancy to his words, they were really gentle in meaning, but they struck home anyways.

He was right. From his perspective, she was some fan with a happy obsession that decided watching him on TV was concerning, that she wanted to run out and help him with no experience whatsoever. Which was true, but her worry wasn’t from the place he thought it was. And she couldn’t tell him without taking off her mask.

“I appreciate the gesture, I really do,” he said, a surprisingly serious look on his face. “But this is a lot more dangerous than it looks. Not the best idea.”

“Well, it wasn’t  _ my _ idea. I mean… it was kinda my idea, but I guess you could say… a friend sent me?” she said. Maybe he could understand. She could show him that she wasn’t just a crazy fan, that her worry came from a real place, and he would understand.

But she regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

“Then I think you’ve been pranked, little bug,” he said. “That, or you need new friends.”

“A friend of  _ yours _ ,” she supplied. “Or… I guess a mutual friend?”

“A friend of  _ mine? _ ” He stepped closer, arching a brow. “Who?”

She fell silent, at a loss for words. She couldn’t tell him her name, couldn’t associate Marinette with Bug. It would be a big mistake, could only result in who knows how many disasters, and she was  _ not _ going to do it. Even if it cost her this chance.

At her silence, he frowned. “Bug, I don’t have too many friends. And the ones I do have… they wouldn’t send me some kind of  _ helper _ without asking first.”

“You think I’m lying,” she said.

He  _did._

“I- I’m not,” she said. “Trust me, I’m not.”

He paused, looking down at her. “Bug, I’m sure you’re a nice girl,” he said slowly, “But this is no way to go about making friends. You trust  _ me _ on that. So please… You can keep the bottle if you really want, that’s what Alix over there’s for,” he chucked a thumb over at gas mask girl on the ground. “But I think it’d be best if you’d just…”

He trailed off. She heard the last word anyway.

_ Go. _

He wanted her to leave.

For her mistake, he thought she was a liar, stupid enough to rely on trust from a friend she wasn’t supposed to know he had.

He thought she was  _ lying _ to him to earn his good favour.

But she was  _ not _ a liar. She lied about trivial things or matters surrounding Chat Noir, yes, but not to earn someone’s favour. She wasn’t your average Lila Rossi, and she certainly didn’t want Chat of all people to think she was.

But he did.

Because, as far as he knew, the girl in the ladybug costume wasn’t Marinette. As far as he knew, Marinette had nothing to do with Bug. Meaning that, unless she dragged her real name into it all, there was no way he’d believe anything that came out of her mouth. Why would he? Without supplying her own name, she was giving him nothing to go on.

She seemed like a stranger, wasn’t supposed to know about his friendship with Marinette, and there was nothing she could do about the situation. If she  _ did _ tell him her name, she would be getting herself involved in a way she was not about to do—not just for her sake, but for other people’s sake too.

She screwed up.

She screwed up  _ bad _ .

She’d charged headlong into the situation without even pausing to think about it. She hadn’t even thought that Chat wouldn’t trust her word—she was thinking that he’d treat her like Marinette right off the bat. She’d gotten drunk off a view of Paris and a piano song, and she’d expected things to just be peachy-keen from then on out, didn’t stop to think about what was going to happen when she went through with it. And that look on Chat’s face was the price to pay.

“I’m sorry. I’m  _ so sorry,”  _ she said, stepping back. She held out the spray can. “Here, just… just…”

Silent, he took the bottle out of her hand.

“I’ll just… go,” she said, stepping away.

He didn’t stop her when she turned tail and made her way back up the fire escape. Nor did he call out when she made it to the top of the building and stumbled along the rooftops. Gone was that feeling of being alive, that amazing view of Paris nothing more than a dull blur, that spirit she’d been in sunk. In its place was a pit.

She locked the balcony door behind her when she got back, pulling the mask off her face and setting it on her desk. Gently, she pulled the rest of the costume off. It was dropped on the floor of her closet, tucked into the back corner to be forgotten. In its place came the biggest sweatshirt she could find and a pair of pyjama shorts.

Every movement was an effort, her brain blank, her legs still numb from all that running. It felt like the energy had been drained from her body.

She couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. She’d jumped into the deep end and expected to know how to swim, without even thinking about drowning or anything else. And now Chat Noir thought her—or well, Bug her—was a liar. An ugly, dirty liar that would say anything to get a few words of praise from a person she looked up to.

She sank onto her bed.

Things had gone about as wrong as they could’ve.

And she had no idea what to do.

So she sat there on her bed, turned on the TV, and tried not to think about it. Thinking about it would only make it worse, and she honestly didn’t know what else there was to do. There was nothing else that could be done, not unless some plan popped up into her head with all the right answers and everything.

When Chat Noir’s face popped up alongside Chloe Bourgeois’, she changed the channel. She couldn’t… she just couldn’t. Not then. If she did, all those stupid thoughts would come back, and before she knew it, she’d be pummeling herself into the ground just because she could.

She’d ignore them. She’d ignore him. She’d give it a few days to figure out what to do. That was her plan.

Unfortunately, her plan only lasted about ten minutes.

Then came the soft  _ tap, tap _ on her balcony door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Summer break is coming to an end. Which means school is starting soon.
> 
> Sadly, I must say I can’t give you guys a steady schedule anymore. Or a fast one. I’ve got a very heavy course load (Full diploma IB *yay*), band, and Cross-country/Track to be doing all year long. And, unfortunately, those things have to come first. I don’t want to give you guys a schedule, then disappoint you or neglect those things to try to keep up. I’m so so sorry :(
> 
> That said, on top of that, I will be taking a brief break. No longer than a week or two of just editing. Now that I’ve wrapped up Act 1, I feel like, having written nearly 30k words in about a month, I might’ve chosen quantity over quality. Nothing will change story-wise, so no worries.
> 
> You guys are absolutely the best readers, but if you have ANY constructive criticism, feel free to share. Like I said, I’m editing. Even if you’re new or you haven’t dropped a review yet, lemme know whatcha think :)


	9. Jinkies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My break ran longer than expected whoops. But hey, thanks to IB Music I can write In the Rain in a minor key (Though it’s pretty unrecognizable cause of where the notes fall on the scale haha)
> 
> I did get pretty frustrated with this chapter. Apologies if it sucks, cause I find myself… strongly disliking it.

 

It was dark in her room—she hadn’t bothered turning on a light. The TV was glowing from its little stand across the room and cast dark, harsh shadows all about the room, the light making everything seem just the slightest bit blue. Some random infomercial played along onscreen. A Nutribullet, she was pretty sure. She watched, only half paying attention, as the guy shoved some poor vegetables in the blender, cranked it on, and out popped a healthy smoothie. He said some things then soon, he was making another. From outside, the streetlamp cast a little light, but besides that and the commercial, the room was black.

The guilt wouldn’t just stay in the back of her mind. No matter how many times she tried, it was there. The guilt, the disappointment, the shame—all of it was still there, settling on her shoulders like dust. She just wanted to forget about it, let it sit there so she could clear her mind and try to think through it.

Yet all she could think about, sitting there, watching that mind-numbing infomercial, was how easy it’d be. How it’d be so easy to fix her mistake.

How easy it would be to just string ‘Bug’ and ‘Marinette’ together in the same sentence, to just… tell Chat the next time he came by. She could tell him she was Bug, or that she knew Bug, or that _somehow_ the two of them were connected, and she knew he’d believe her, and then the problem would be fixed like that.

She’d invite him in with a smile like she always did and sit him down on her bed, spill everything about the costume in her closet and the mask she’d worn. Her mistakes would be no more, she could _fix_ things that easily. She could pull out that costume and show him, say ‘see, Bug can be trusted, see? I’m Bug’ and then things would just be all peachy keen and everything would be fixed, and they’d go on about their day like normal. He might be upset—she had pulled a stupid move, after all, what with the whole ‘no experience, putting yourself in danger’ thing—but things would be better between him and Bug than they were. Or they wouldn’t be; he could end up being more upset than before. But the option still held more hope. It was _doing_ something. It was a chance at fixing things. It was easier.

But… it was impossible.

No, it was _out_ of the _question_.

She couldn’t.

No matter how much she wanted to, she _couldn’t._

Connecting her own name and Bug’s would be putting everyone around her, including herself, in danger. She couldn’t tell him that she was bug, nor could she use her name to validate Bug’s words because what if something happened later down the line? What if he got caught or she got caught or something happened and somehow her name got put out there? Hanging around with Chat in her room and running around the city committing crimes with him were two _very_ different things, with completely different stakes and consequences. If she associated herself with Bug, then one slip up was all it’d take.

And Chat Noir wasn’t associating himself with anyone, was he? No, he wasn’t. Everything about his identity was kept under wraps, leaving her with no idea who he was—that was how it was supposed to be. That was the way it _had_ to be. To keep himself safe, to keep those around him safe, to let him live his life without fearing anything, that was how it was supposed to be.

It wasn’t a simple head or heart decision. It wasn’t even a decision, there was only one good option.

She’d made her mistakes, and she wasn’t going to put anyone in danger to fix them. Her friends, her family, nobody deserved that, none of it was _near_ worth the risk. They shouldn’t _ever_ have to pay for her mistakes.

The infomercial played on, the guy onscreen blabbing on and on and on about a reduced price and “only blah blah blah for shipping and handling if you order right now!”

And, as was inevitable, he came. She got through ten minutes of relative silence, of being left alone to think on and on about it all, trying at every turn to push it all away, before he showed up.

_Tap, tap._

Dread curled up in her stomach at the mere sound of it, but she went ahead and looked up anyways.

A cat-eared silhouette sat on her railing, stark against the dim streetlamp and TV. Bright blue light hollowed out his cheeks, darkened his eyes, made sure she _saw_ the black mask on his face. His teeth gleamed—a smile.

She couldn’t say her heart didn’t race at the sight of him. He was there. He was _there._

_Tap, tap._

More insistent. He’d seen her sitting there—not that she was trying to hide or anything along those lines; she was sitting in plain view of the balcony. But something about curling up under a blanket in the dark made her feel like she was hidden, like she was alone despite the open blinds across the way.

But there he was, and suddenly she didn’t feel so hidden.

“ _Hey, the door’s locked.”_

She met his eyes through the glass, not moving from her little ball on the bed. There he sat, looking at her with those eyes of his pleading, a bag of something in his hand. It was brown with a grease stain across the bottom of it, and going by the logo on the side, from the Chinese place down the street. The one she and Alya went to all the time. The one she’d mentioned to him.

He’d remembered her favourite Chinese place, for no reason, and gotten food there just for her.

It was stupidly sweet.

He was stupidly sweet.

And…

And she couldn’t help but think that there she was, sitting on her bed and _moping_ , trying not to think about the problem just because she didn’t want to, and there he was, being so nice for no good reason.

He _was_ a living, breathing, too nice reminder that she’d royally screwed up. She’d done the stupidest thing she could’ve possibly done, realized she’d backed herself into a corner, then run off when he reacted like a normal human being. She’d gone out with little to no plan and interfered when she shouldn’t have, gotten involved when it would’ve been better to hang back or do _literally_ anything else.

She’d been stupid.

And so yes, he reminded her of it all. How she’d messed up. How she had no idea what to do. How there wasn’t much she could do.

Yet… none of it was, in any way shape or form, his fault. She’d been the one to charge out with a half-baked plan in her head, dressed up like a giant bug. He hadn’t done anything. She shouldn’t shun him, pretend he wasn’t there, just because she’d screwed something up.

She couldn’t just leave him out there.

It was with that stupid idea in her head that she got up, unlocked the door, and let him in.

In silence, he put the food down on her desk. He didn’t move to turn on a light, just stood there for a moment and looked at her in the darkness. She looked up, meeting his eyes.

A beat of silence passed.

“Hey,” he said.

She tried to muster up a strong voice and forced her face into a smile, but it didn’t work, and instead, all she did was mutter out her own pitiful-sounding “hey.”

It only took half a second for him to pick up on it, for him to hear the guilt just leaking and leaking on into her voice. “You… are you okay?” he asked, sitting down next to her.

“I’m- I’m good.”

“You don’t look good,” he said.

She frowned.

“I mean, you look upset. You still look good… Not to sound weird or anything.”

She smiled the slightest bit, watching him get twisted up in his own words. It was endearing—even in her piss-poor mood, she could let herself enjoy it. “I’m okay, kitty,” she said. It fell flat though, sounded hollow and wrong—like a lie, through and through, even to her own ears.

A couple of seconds ticked on by. The Nutribullet man was muted off in the corner, showing off some aspect of the thing that Marinette didn’t give two hoots about. She focused on the TV to avoid thinking about anything else—her mistakes, Chat sitting beside her, all of it.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Finally, he’d said it, the question she’d been waiting for. She tried to swallow the thick lump in her throat, but failed miserably.

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Well, it _is_ nothing.”

Another beat of silence passed, and he didn’t respond. The man onscreen handed a woman a smoothie, fresh out of the Bullet, with a gleaming white smile that seemed too fake to be true. She could practically hear Chat’s head whirring away beside her, mulling over every single little detail in some attempt to figure out what was wrong.

It was about a minute before he spoke.

“You know…” he said, his voice soft, “You can tell me whatever, right?”

“Chat.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you-”

“I know you’re not.”

“-But… you _do_ look upset. And saying it’s not important… it’s worrying. If there’s something going on, you should know you _can_ tell me. No matter how bad it is.”

He was assuming the worst in the situation. He was assuming that something had happened, that that something had _nothing_ to do with him, that something had happened to her and she wasn’t going to talk about it. The oh-so-heavy pit just got heavier in her stomach, sinking down and down further in there at just the thought of what he was thinking of. The scenarios he seemed to be dreaming up, the implications of what he was saying, what he thought had happened.

“Chat, there’s nothing going on, I’m telling you,” she said. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

He frowned in thought. “I can’t help it,” he said. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m okay, really. _”_

“Marinette-”

“Chat, whatever you think you’re seeing- you’re- you’re not seeing.” She fiddled with the edge of the blanket in her hand, rubbing over and over and over. “ _I’m fine.”_

Guilt, again, rose up in her. Her thoughts fluttered about in her brain, despite how hard she tried to push them down.

Another moment of silence passed. He was still worried, she registered.

She stared at him.

And, just like that, she was back in her stupid little pit of angst, thinking about the stupid problem that she’d oh-so-stupidly created. The lull that he’d brought was shattered by her stupid, _stupid_ thoughts about everything that was wrong and how she _knew_ she was going to mess things up.

His eyes drifted down to her hands, took in the blanket rubbing, then came back up to her face. The worried expression only got stronger. He’d read her. And, fiddling with the edge of the blanket, she sat there open like a book. She let go of the blanket with a sigh and put her hands in her lap, willing them to be still.

 

“Chat,” she said. She let out a long sigh, trying to get herself to calm down before her brain of hers made her snap at him. He was worried, he was allowed to be worried, he wasn’t _trying_ to make her more upset. “I get it that you’re worried, but I don’t want to talk about it. There’s something wrong, you’re _right._ And you have every right to be worried. But… just- _stop_ bringing it up. Please.”

He stared at her. Again, she could see the cogs whirring around in the back of his brain, but this time, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. His whole face was just a still shock, with nothing but that there in any hint of his face.

She’d raised her voice on accident, she realized.

He was silent for a moment. Still, the blue light of the TV bounced around on his face, hollowing out his cheeks, sinking in his eyes, making the crease of his brow just that more noticeable. His eyes were still wide out in shock, surprised that his tiny little princess Marinette had raised her voice at him, that she could raise her voice like that to begin with.

And, immediately, she just felt all the more guilty.

He’d been trying to help, and she’d gotten that upset with him for no good reason, gone out and yelled just because he wanted to understand what was wrong. For all she knew, he was just following her own advice, all that ‘friends tell each other things’ bullshit she’d spouted off. He didn’t know how she really felt, how all the ‘upset’ he was seeing was just her upset over her own stupid mistakes.

He didn’t know. He had no way of knowing. He’d just assumed the worst and worried about her like all good friends did when the word ‘upset’ was involved.

“I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-” she started to say, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling softly.

“No, it’s not okay, I shouldn’t have raised my voice, and I shouldn’t have _snapped_ like that, oh my god I snapped at you. I’m so sorr-”

“Marinette. It’s okay.” Again, there was that warm smile.

“But I yelled at you.”

“It’s okay. I’ll survive,” he said. “And… I’d hardly call that _yelling_.”

She nodded, hanging her head just the slightest bit.

There was a pregnant pause, seeming like it just wanted to weigh down on her shoulders, pushing her down and down until she could do no more. She felt like your average Atlas, with a whole world of guilt and remorse just weighing down on her head.

When he spoke, his voice was soft. “The food’s probably gonna be cold soon.”

“I have a microwave,” she said.

“Eh… reheated Chinese food isn’t the best. Turns it chewy.”

She smiled just slightly, nodding along. “If you say so, kitty.”

With that, he got up and snatched the bag off her desk. “I didn’t know what to get, so I got… a lot,” he said, opening it up. He fished out a couple boxes, some chopsticks, and a couple cheap fortune cookies, putting some in her lap and the rest in his. Then, the channel was changed to Cartoon Network. Some crappy movie from forever ago—a live-action Scooby-Doo—was being shown. The plot and the acting were terrible, borderline hilarious with how bad they were, but… 2004 CG Scooby-Doo took the cake.

They sat there, eating that cheap Chinese food, in relative silence. The movie played on. They laughed at the unbearably bad parts, frowned at the confusing parts, and shared hushed words of uncertainty when the villain was revealed.

And, somewhere along the line, she forgot that she was supposed to feel bad. Maybe that’d been his goal when he’d flicked through the channels, or maybe it was pure happenstance, but regardless, she forgot. She didn’t think about how she’d run across the rooftops just hours ago, or how he’d looked at her when he thought she’d been lying. For a little while, she was fine. Watching that stupid, terrible movie, she felt… okay. Good.

When the movie ended and the credits played, the food was gone. She sat there on the bed, the blanket still draped around her shoulders, full of bad food and sitting next to Chat Noir, and she still felt… okay.

She felt like everything could be alright.

Maybe it was a little bit of an assumption on her part, thinking things could turn out right so soon, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe she was letting her guilt make the situation bigger than it was. Maybe she hadn’t screwed up so much as she thought, the situation was much more fixable than she believed.

“Chat?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks, for that. I think I needed to get my mind off things.”

“All in a day’s work, my princess,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, then I’m more than happy to oblige.”

She smiled.

“Although,” he said, eyes flicking over to the clock. “I may have to get going.”

She looked at her alarm clock. Bright red numbers read 1:36. “I didn’t realize it’s so late.”

“Don’t fret, purr-incess. I’m no stranger to late nights.”

She laughed. “Alright then. I’ll let you go.”

“See you soon?”

“See you soon,” she said, nodding.

And then, he just opened up her balcony doors, and was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there’s that.


End file.
